


Writer’s Month 2020 Prompts

by OrchidScript



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe - World War I, August 2020 Writers Prompts, F/F, F/M, M/M, Spirit Mediums, Tumblr Writer Prompts, World War I, seance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 50,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: This is a collection of short fics I’ve written within the Shades of Magic universe for the August Writer’s Month prompts for 2020. These pieces have all ended up circulating around several AUs -- a modern AU, a 1940s AU, a Victorian AU where Antari are spirit mediums, and some extra pieces in the same Great War AU as Amid the Ruin -- plus a few odds and ends. This collection has everything: fluff, drama, angst, romance, some darkness at the edges to keep it interesting. Since a coherent order is not a thing, I’ll be marking each chapter with whatever storyline it is plus whatever characters appear in it. So you all can pick and choose whichever strikes your fancy!CW: I make no guarantees about the content of these chapters. I've outlined all of them, but am essentially writing on the fly. The rating I’ve given reflects the variety of content in here, including some pretty dark stuff and/or nsfw situations. Since the content varies greatly from chapter to chapter, I will be including individual warnings at the top of each chapter, as well as updating the tags as this project goes on! Stay safe and enjoy!
Relationships: (they're just friends here guys but she does make appearances!), Alucard Emery/Rhy Maresh, Delilah Bard & Kell Maresh, Kell Maresh/Holland Vosijk, Talya/Holland Vosijk
Comments: 45
Kudos: 48





	1. Flower Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Flower Shop AU
> 
> This whole thing was inspired by this mini-comic (https://heartstoppercomic.tumblr.com/post/168075325319/mini-comic-flower-shop-a-little-story-set-in-an) part of the Heartstopper series by Alice Oseman. I binge read it every so often and I did very recently before writing this. It’s adorable, so pop over to Tumblr or Tapas and read it if you like straight up fluff with a dash of angst.
> 
> This piece is straight fluff featuring Holland Vosijk + Kell Maresh. Enjoy!

The redhead couldn’t decide what he wanted, and Holland didn’t want to listen to the footsteps any longer than he already had. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across the concrete floors of the shop. Slow and considering each shelf, fast and rushing back to a particular spot. For going on twenty minutes now.

And Holland was right at the climax of his book...

With a heavy sigh, he closed the cover of the library book and stood up from his stool behind the counter. “Can I help you find something?”

The redhead jumped and spun around. His cheeks flushed pink under his freckles as he looked Holland up and down. “Oh, um, yes… Maybe? Do you -- and this is a stupid question I know -- have red orchids?”

“Red?” Holland repeated, an eyebrow arching. “No, the closest I have is orange.”

“I figured,” the other man sighed, letting his head hang for a moment. He looked like he was dressed for a wedding. “Sorry to drag you into my fool’s errand. Thanks for confirming my suspicions.”

“Why red?” Holland asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He wanted to get back to his book and the quiet humidity of the flower shop before closing up. 

“It’s stupid…” The younger man sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My mother, she gets these ideas and I’m usually the one who has to tell her it can’t be done. She wants red orchids for a dinner party tonight and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’ve checked every single shop in town. And now I’m going to be late over all this, which will put me on her bad side for who knows how long.”

Holland hummed, eyes skimming over the shelves and refrigerator cases. He knew the small store’s inventory backward and forward, inside and out -- he had been the one to insist to the owner that they even make an inventory. Surely there would be something in these that would get the man on his way and satisfy the very odd, completely impossible request. 

“You didn’t need to know all that, sorry--.”

Holland shakes his head, cutting the man off. Without another word, he spins on his heel and walks off towards the back case where the pre-made bouquets were stored. He knew the redhead had already checked back here, but shrugged it off. Holland himself put each arrangement together himself each morning, carving out an hour and a half of the pre-opening quiet for the meditative placing and trimming. He knew how he had put each one together, so he knew precisely how to take each one apart.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t want to waste your time--.”

“You’re not,” Holland called, pulling out three vases from the cool case. “If anything, I’m wasting your time. Bear with me.”

Shutting the door with his foot, he wandered over to the front counter and pushed his book aside to set the vases down. As the other man wandered close, Holland walked quickly to the back room. He selected a cylindrical red glass vase, weighing it in his hand as he walked back to the counter. Holland set everything out in an orderly line, selecting different blooms one by one and holding them up as he did.

“Snapdragons and orange lilies. For presumption and dislike,” Holland said to the younger man, dropping each stem methodically into the vase. “Yellow carnation, for disdain and disappointment. They’re also funeral flowers, so an extra dash of morbidity.”

The redhead took a step forward, resting his elbows on the counter as he watched. Despite looking worried and unsure, something in his face was very focused on this little piece of showmanship. Fascinated and more than a little grateful in his nice black suit and grey coat.

“Amaryllis, for pride. Your mother should like the red.” Holland maneuvered the last of the flowers, then reached blindly for a small fluted vase at the end of the line. He set it next to the taller red one with an air of finality. “And lavender, for distrust. In case she hates the rest of it.”

For the first time since he’d come through the door, the other man smiled widely. “It’s perfect. She’ll hate it.”

Holland smirked. “Then they’re on the house.”

“No, I can’t do that. That’s too much--.”

“Then come back sometime and tell me all about it,” Holland shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll be a hell of a story.”

“Thank you,” the younger man said earnestly. Then he gathered up the flowers and hurried back out into the cold day, leaving Holland to pick between cleaning up the remnants of three bouquets or finishing his book. 

He picked the book.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland glanced up at the sound of the door over the bell, a habit developed over two years of work. One customer. He shrugged and turned back to his book -- a new one, bought for his birthday as an indulgent treat to himself -- then blinked and looked back up.

“You busy?” It was the redhead from weeks, maybe a whole month, before. Same nervous expression, same blue eyes, same voice. But now he stood in a tee shirt and jeans, two to-go cups of coffee in his hands.

“Oh,” Holland said, thoughts still coming together in a rush. He glanced around the store, then shook his head.

“I meant with the book.”

Holland dropped his bookmark back into place and closed the cover. He hadn’t talked to another person all day -- something that normally didn’t bother him. He wasn’t one to turn down an offer of coffee either. “I don’t have to be.”

“Oh, good.” The redhead smiled. He approached the counter, a little more confident now, and set the coffee in front of Holland. “You said to come back with the story and, well, I um… I finally got the nerve up. It’s black, by the way. I have cream and--.”

“Good guess. That’s how I drink mine,” Holland interrupted, picking up the cup and offering a small smile. “Must’ve been a pretty bad time if it took you so long to come back.”

“Well, it was. But actually…” The other man cleared his throat, flushing pink. “It was you. I was nervous about… talking, to you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s stupid, I know. But I thought you were just being nice because I was a hot mess that day.”

“You were, but I’ll always appreciate a good story.” Holland shrugged and took a sip. He reached out a hand to the other man. “Holland. There’s another chair back here if you want to sit.”

“Kell. And thanks, I will. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. How’d your mother like the lilies?”

Kell grins wickedly. “She absolutely hated them.”


	2. Quarantine (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s AU
> 
> Holland and Nasi, a little backstory for the rest of the plot left to come! Please forgive me, but I gave Nasi a "real name" for the sake of the storyline -- making "Nasi" a nickname for "Natasha", because I did way too much reading into Russian given names and their diminutive forms to pick the best one. In this piece, Nasi has just turned 5 and Holland is 32. In the main story (see ch. 6), Nasi is 10 and Holland is 37.
> 
> CW: references to war-time, referenced past death (one mention); just plot set-up, y'all.

_ 1944 -- New York, NY, USA _

“Full legal name?”

“Holland Vosijk.”

“Age?”

“Thirty two.”

“Marital status.”

“Unmarried.”

The immigration inspector paused to pointedly glance from Holland to the small little girl standing just behind his right leg. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Holland answered sharply. “She is my daughter. Her mother was killed before we could be properly married.”

It was a lie. A bold-faced, exceptional lie.

Holland was no more blood-related to the blonde child who held his hand than the immigration inspector. She had been an accidental hanger-on, one of the few things Holland had taken with him on his flight from Europe. Talya had found her behind the cafe she worked at, feeding the stray cats scraps from the trash in a dirty coat, and insisted on bringing her home to stay. Holland hadn’t been particularly keen about having a four year old in their already cramped, frequently crowded apartment. But he couldn’t argue with Talya and would have given the woman anything she asked of him -- even an abandoned toddler.

And then Talya had died and Holland didn’t have the heart to walk away.

“And, for your daughter? Name, age?”

Holland bent down to scoop up the little girl into his arms so she could look the other man in the eye. He bounced her on his hip and smiled gently. “Go on. Answer the man.”

Between Paris and the first U.S. Army camp he had found,  _ Nasi _ had become  _ Natasha Vosijk _ and Holland had become her father. He had worked up a family history worthy of Technicolor -- some truth, but mostly falsehoods -- and taught it to Nasi, who had taken it more seriously than Holland had expected. He had begun testing it on the GIs in casual conversation until it came more naturally to him than the truth. Everyone between Normandy and New York had bought the saga hook, line, and sinker. Nasi sold it with her quiet sweetness. At some point -- he didn’t know precisely when -- Holland had come to believe it himself. 

“Natasha Vosijk,” Nasi murmured. She held out one hand to the inspector, all five fingers spread. “Five.”

A few more marks on the intake sheet. “Can you read and write?”

“In English, yes. Natasha is still learning.”

Holland was getting sick of the questions. The weeks and weeks of formalized, sterile questions. He was sick of being poked and prodded by formality. Sick of speaking English and the curious, often hostile looks his accent garnered. Sick of overdressing himself for someone’s disapproving stare, sick of fighting Nasi to get her hair brushed, face washed, meals eaten. 

He was never promised ease of passage. No one had smoothed the road for him and Nasi to pass. Holland hadn’t expected them to. He had expected length, many doors to walk through and hours of difficult questions. He expected to produce papers, proof that they was who he claimed them to be; expected to produce smiles and good moods when he hadn’t been in one in nearly eight months.

He had been promised New York would be their new home. The city, now assuredly at their fingertips and visible across the river through all the thick-paned windows, was right there. Holland was growing impatient of simply not being there yet.

Always  _ yet _ .

“Last place of residence?”

“Paris, France.”

“Nationality?”

“Russian, both of us.”

“Final destination?”

“New York.”

“Are you joining a friend or relatives at your final destination?”

“Yes. Cousins that live on the East Side.”

The immigration inspector smirked at his ledger and made a few more sharp marks. Obvious judgement that made Holland bristle in his dark grey suit. He adjusted Nasi in his arms and held the girl tighter to his chest to keep his temper well in check. He had seen that look far too many times for his liking and was not yet resigned to the knowledge that he would be subject to it for far longer.

Nasi wriggled in his arms, jolting Holland from his dark thoughts. He loosened his grip on her and gave her a small look of apology. Seeming to accept it, Nasi leaned back against his shoulder, one of her fingers running back and forth along the edge of his lapel. 

The bright red wool of her coat scratched under his palms. It had been a perfect fit, soft and warm, when Talya had bought it for her, but that had been almost two years ago. Holland decided then that he would buy her a new one as soon as they got settled -- something softer, that fit her properly. Maybe a new pair of boots too.

“Who paid for your passage?”

“I did,” Holland answered almost primly, then cleared his throat.

“Do you have fifty dollars?”

“I do.”

His carefully crafted self-control was starting to slip. Only a few more questions, he reminded himself. Only a few more questions, a few more gates and doors, and they were home free. After nearly a month of waiting with the American army, long days on an ocean liner, weeks in mandatory quarantine after arriving in New York harbor -- Nasi with a fever and Holland still nauseous from seasickness -- and hours for days on end standing in the inspection queue, they were very nearly home. Their  _ new _ home, anyhow. 

He wouldn’t jeopardize this last step by cracking under pressure. He had never done it before and he wouldn’t let it happen now. His control was why the White Twins had agreed to hire him, why they had sent the money he had used to buy their passage across the Atlantic. He wouldn’t let it get the better of him.

“Last question,” the immigration inspector asked, finally looking back up at the two of them. “Is anyone forcing you and your daughter to come to the United States, Mr. Vosijk?”

Holland leveled his calm green stare at the inspector. The deal he had made with the Danes rang in his ears and he held Nasi closer to him. He had agreed to it for her, was sticking his neck out for her -- because a dead woman had made him promise to. 

Holland smiled gently and shook his head. “No, nothing of the sort.”


	3. Magic (Seance AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian/Seance AU featuring Kell Maresh and Lila Bard. This scene directly follows the events of Spirutus Vitae, the second fic I've written for AU. So, if you like this storyline and set up, there is plenty more in my archive for you to read and enjoy!
> 
> No warnings for this one. Enjoy!

Lila squirmed and slouched low in her chair, arms crossed tightly across her chest. She was growing wildly restless watching Kell Maresh pace back and forth across the living room carpet like a cage animal. This was becoming their daily pattern, now that Lila had moved into the confines of the London Sanctuary to begin training. Holland Vosijk was awake and healing, spending much of his time regaining and strengthening his  _ antari _ skills under Talya’s patient, guiding hands.

Lila found herself missing the dead woman’s soft voice in her head, the tug of Talya’s will on her limbs and stretching her fingers, the reassurance that she was meant to be in the company of these men.

She was meant to be there.

Kell Maresh was meant to be training her -- something he was either refusing to do or simply dawdling because he didn’t know how.

Lila watched him pace in front of the fire, watching him stop and start on the richly colored rug. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves around his wrists. He loosened the hard knot at the hollow of his throat. He chewed the inside of his cheek and ran rough fingers through wavy red hair. Whatever he was mulling over, it was engaging enough he didn’t notice Lila’s light laughter in the quiet room.

“Are we going to start sometime soon, Master Kell?” Lila asked, voice laced with mirth. “Or is the first step in learning magic watching your instructor work up a sweat?”

Kell stopped abruptly. “This isn’t  _ magic _ , Delilah.”

“Then what would you call your tricks?” Lila crossed her legs, leaning back in her chair. “Because I see levitating tables and self-igniting drapes and see very clever magic tricks--.”

“They aren’t magic tricks!” Kell snapped, spinning around to better glare at her. “Skills, manifestations, talents perhaps _ but not tricks _ !”

Lila hummed to herself. “Touchy, touchy… Are you like this with all your students, Maresh?”

Kell bristled, but held his temper in check. “No, just you. I’ve never had a student before. When you turned up, I had only just finished being a student myself.”

“Is that what has you pacing and tongue-tied?” Lila raised an eyebrow. “Inexperience?”

“I am not  _ inexperienced _ , Delilah, I am  _ disbelieving _ ,” Kell corrected her sharply. Clasping his hands firmly behind his back, he fixed his cold blue stare on her, face serious and shadowed. None of the half-weeping gratitude from two weeks before remained. The air itself seemed to crackle around him -- a trick of the light maybe, but Lila was becoming less sure. “You seem to think this entire proposition is a joke, despite witnessing them yourself.  _ I _ am not incapable of teaching you.  _ You _ are incapable of  _ being taught. _ ”

Lila sucked in a breath, then straightened up in her chair. Her dark eyes turned darker at the slight. If it was a fight he wanted… “You promised Talya you would teach me.”

“Talya will understand my reluctance.”

“You’re going back on your promise, to a dead woman.”

“I’m confronting an error made in desperation.”

“What was all that about  _ saying thank you to our guides _ and  _ respecting the dead _ then?”

“I cannot teach someone who believes my lessons are elaborate hoaxes.”

She didn’t like the challenge, didn’t appreciate the accusations Kell was levelling at her. Here he was, regarding her with the haughty derision of a prince. He thought he knew exactly who she was, what she did, how she worked from the moment he laid eyes on her. Lila had been regarded as many things in her life, mostly unsavory or unflattering. She had stylized herself as a thief, a pirate, a drifter, a fraud. 

It was one thing to walk past a stranger on the street and understand how she appeared to them, then happily disregard them all. 

It was quite another to be confronted with the judgement of another, freely and enthusiastically given.

Kell Maresh had clout within the Sanctuary, perhaps more than he deserved. The other students treated him with all the deference given to the Pope of Rome. His residency at the Sanctuary was considered miraculous and his very person was a blessing. Ask anyone employed or being educated there about the serious redhead and one would be forgiven for coming to believe he walked on air, could grant miracles, or was perhaps more than human.

Lila had known who he was before Talya had led her to him. They were close in age and rumors spread fast among Spiritualists. The community traded the names and feats of performers like children traded candy and copper pennies. Lila had heard his name spoken with eerie reverence in plenty of parlors, dining rooms, and ballrooms around West London.

The eldest albeit adopted son of the exorbitantly wealthy Maresh family, an apparent child prodigy, and now the toast of Spiritualist London. He never performed on stage or any public venue for that matter -- he exclusively worked his feats of mystery in the private homes of London’s elite. Rumor had it, he performed for no pay and would only arrange performances through his younger brother.

The public saw this as evidence of his virtue and talent. A sure sign that he was a true, rare  _ antari _ medium.

All Lila saw was a young man, desperate to hide.

“Well…” Lila sniffed and leaned forward onto her knees. “Aren’t they?”

“No.” Kell sighed. “They aren’t.”

“Then what would you call them, Kell?” Lila asked. She was challenging him and knew he could see it. Most of her wanted to goad him into a real argument, to force the bickering and tension to its natural explosive end. Another, much smaller part of her only wanted answers.

What she didn’t expect was for Kell’s eyes to turn sad, his expression to soften. He slouched into his waistcoat, fiddled with his sleeve garters and watch chain. “In all honesty, Delilah, I’ve never called them anything. It doesn’t need a name if it’s a part of you.”

Lila arched an eyebrow. She didn’t understand why he kept calling her  _ Delilah _ .

“Let me explain.” 

He walked forward, seating himself on the couch to her left. He leans forward onto the arm to better keep her attention. The seriousness had come back into his features, creasing the space between his eyebrows and hardening the blue centers of his eyes. The air no longer buzzed around him, but Lila couldn’t help but feel trapped under his even gaze. Drawn in and transfixed. She couldn’t force herself to look away.

“You have to understand. These…” Kell grappled for a word. “Powers have always been with me. Since I was small, they have always been right at my fingertips as a natural extension of my own being. A natural extension of my thoughts, my willpower. It is simple to me because I have known nothing else and, when I showed promise, my parents had the grace to humor me.” 

Kell paused long enough to gesture up and down at Lila. “You’ve not had that. I can understand why you might be skeptical considering the amount of charlatans and tricksters in our midst. But I am not one of them and neither is Holland. And…” Kell pursed his lips and sighs. “And, if what Talya and Tieren have said is true, then I suppose neither are you.”

Lila blinked. “Tieren?”

“Yes, Tieren,” Kell repeated. “He has come to believe you have real talent. He’s not precisely sure to what extent, but knows that not all your thefts from the library have been entirely your hands.”

“So, the head of the Sanctuary and a spirit both believe I have talent,” Lila sighs. “But you don’t.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Delilah, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Kell answered smoothly, apparently pleased with himself. Lila only stared. “Oh… Shakespeare.” He took in a shallow breath, looking uncertain again. “What I’m saying is, I spend much of my life believing in much for the sake of my work. My entire life has required the suspension of skepticism, the tiniest grain of curiosity that there might be more to the world. I am willing to suspend my disbelief in you in order to be proven wrong.”

“Is that a no, Master Kell?”

Kell shakes his head. “No, I’m saying I don’t know. I don’t know if you do or not, but I’m willing to teach you in the hopes that I may be proven wrong. I know my craft. I know I can teach you.”

Lila crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“You,” Kell replied simply. Satisfied with himself, Kell stood and straightened his clothes. “Until you abandon the notion that you are a fraud, I can’t teach you. If I am ever going to teach you the way Talya promised, you are going to have to believe you are the real article. Otherwise, you won’t last here.”


	4. Long Distance Relationship (WWI AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great War/World War I AU (aka Amid the Ruin); Alucard Emery and Rhy Maresh.
> 
> This is kind of a weird one, guys. I just didn't really know what to do with the prompt - "long distance relationship" - and this is the only idea that came to me after wracking my brain for hours. So, know going in that this is going to be on the shorter side and reads a little bit like a ramble. It centers around letters and, not for nothing, I feel like a kind of mailed this one in. (Apologies for the bad pun.)
> 
> CW: No warnings, BUT this chapter contains spoilers for Amid The Ruin, my Shades of Magic longfic. So if you don’t mind a teeny spoiler on Rhy's storyline, please read on! 
> 
> ENJOY!

_ 1924 _

This had gotten out of hand but Rhy wasn’t quite ready to step away yet. From where he sat, perched cross-legged on his bed, he was able to look at three long years. An extensive array of letters fanned out across the rug, documenting three years of correspondence with one man.

He was trying to decide which to keep, which to part with.

Half of him wondered if he should just scrap the whole lot and start over, but that seemed rash. He had kept them for a reason. He simply couldn’t remember what the reason was. He didn’t read them or think about them. They had been carefully placed in a drawer of his desk the moment he got home in 1917, and this was the first time they had seen the light of day since. They were painful, brought up bad memories. Days and events Rhy had finally started to put behind him in the new decade.

The war was over. A lasting peace had been re-negotiated. Arnes was finally rising again. Alucard was home and, much to his brother’s chagrin, installed in the palace as an advisor.

Things were going well, perhaps too well. 

Perhaps that was why Rhy had felt compelled to extract the letter from their crypt, dust covered and fading. A moment to check his pride and remember what was lost, what they had collectively been through. Remind himself of the reasons why he continued to stay up late into the night and rose before the sun; why he continued to conduct audiences day in and day out as he had for years now; why the citizens of Arnes had chosen to give him a title.

_ Padishah Rhy Maresh Han Hazretleri an Ehlileşmez _

_ His royal highness King Rhy Maresh, the Unbreakable. _

Rhy smiled at the thought, despite himself. It seemed self-centered, self-serving, prideful. The voice in his chastised him for not being thoroughly humbled by the title. But like his brother and his father, Rhy finally had earned himself a title and an excellent one at that. 

Whether or not he deserved it was still up for debate, but at the very least he could grow into it.  _ Padishah an Ehlileşmez  _ was a man Rhy could be proud of being before his country, could stand next to his brother with.  _ Padishah an Ehlileşmez  _ would have impressed his parents, had they lived long enough. Rhy Maresh could be Arnes’ unbreakable king for everyone, save one man.

Alucard Emery was the only person in Arnes or beyond who could see through the acts. The only person who could strip away the years and scars, the kingship and  _ mas vares _ . The only person who was able to reveal the person underneath and who Rhy was unafraid to be so naked in front of.

It was why he couldn’t bring himself to discard the letters.

They represented three years apart, then three years lost. Long years. Painful years. Years that still clung to his skin, hair, and clothes like snow on tree branches in winter. Years Rhy, if given the opportunity, would happily take back or do over.

The letters were the standing, lasting document of their separation. They were a testament to what was lost being found. They were privileged to have survived it, privileged to be able to see the end and what came after. Rhy survived the war, as did Alucard. They were allowed to return to one another and had been all but inseparable in the four years since. Alucard had been promoted to captain in the royal navy and named an advisor. Rhy’s nightmares were fewer and farther between as the world continued to right itself. 

Rhy would not believe he was at least partially responsible for that. He wouldn’t hear it, even from Alucard.

When he returned, Rhy had realized how starved he was for Alucard’s voice and from then on had hung on every word, syllable; every pause and teasing lilt. So Rhy always listened, even when what he was hearing could not possibly be true.

The country was improving by his hand, his will.

The audiences, reviews, and visitations continued to aid him in his cause.

He had earned his title, had been given it in earnest and for a reason.

The letters represented a time before then. When him and Alucard were divided by war and water. Days when Rhy’s confidence did not have to be coaxed forward by the captain’s personal reassurance. Getting rid of the letters would get rid of that latent reminder -- that he was not the man he had once been or was meant to be. Letting them go might help soothe the last of his invisible wounds, might help put the last of his anxieties to bed.

Alucard didn’t think so. Rhy couldn’t decide.

With a sigh, Rhy pulled himself up and slid off the bed, bare feet landing softly on the richly woven rug. Still in his bed clothes and robes, he gathered up the letters one by one. He held the stack close to his chest as he did so, held it closer as he walked out into the palace hallway. Guards fell into step behind him -- something Rhy tried and failed to ignore -- as he walked towards the far end of the hall. For formality’s sake, Alucard kept a room of his own. He didn’t sleep or keep any of his belongings there, using it instead as a kind of study. Rhy could come and go as he pleased, so the older man didn’t bat an eye when he strode into the room and deposited the stacks of letters on the unused bed.

“What have you brought me today,  _ mas hazra _ ?” Alucard called, not looking up from the papers held in his hands.

“Come see,” Rhy replied simply. He pulled his robes tighter around him and spread the letters in a neat line across the silken red covers. 

He heard Alucard shift, then stand and walk towards him. He was dressed for the day, but didn’t mention his king’s state of undress which Rhy was grateful for. Alucard stepped up next to Rhy, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him closer. He reached his other hand out, fingers skimming over the faded and worn edges of the correspondence.

“Still haven’t made your decision?” he whispered.

Rhy shook his head. “I’ve decided only that I can’t have them in my rooms. I’d like to keep them, but not have them close. Does that sound reasonable?”

“So you bring them to my rooms?”

“They’re yours in name only, and I can’t exactly keep them in Kell’s.”

“Fair enough…” Alucard hummed as he considered the paper. “I’m sure I can come up with a better place to keep them, but they can live here for now.”

“For now. I just…” Rhy sighed heavily. “I can’t see them burned up.”

“Neither can I.”


	5. Soulmates (Seance AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the wonderful Muffinworry -- I promised to deliver some more Talya and Holland interactions and I've finally followed through. I hope you enjoy, friend!
> 
> Victorian/Seance AU with Holland, Talya, and small glimpse of Kell at the very end. Apologies to all the people who are not into Kell/Holland (Kelland?) -- the final few scenes are fluffy romantic of them. I didn't know what to do for the "soulmates" prompt, so this is a play on words. Holland and Talya are sharing Holland's body so he can heal, therefore making them "soul room-mates".
> 
> You can blame my partner for inspiring that. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> CW: discussions of death and dying.

_1883_

_ Breathe, Holland. That’s all I want you to do for now. Breathe, concentrate on filling yourself back up. _

Down in the darkness, Holland nodded and settled. Talya’s voice was soothing, gentle. It appeared every so often in the swaddling black, asking questions or just to talk for a moment. Confronting him, telling him how much stronger he was than before, how his soul was slowly knitting itself back together the longer he rested, reminding him that he wasn’t alone wherever he was.

According to Talya, it had been two months since he had relinquished his hold to hers. Time amounted to nothing in the Veil, but Holland was beginning to grow impatient. He was feeling stronger now, could feel his soul more whole than before -- good signs, Talya insisted, considering how he had been ready to die only a few weeks prior. Talya was pleased with him, pleased with his progress. She had agreed to guide him up to the surface, let him sit with help in his own skin. 

Now Talya was challenging him to do it himself.

 _Is it working, Tal?_ He asked between breaths. He felt solid, whole, bound in by real borders. No longer numb and frighteningly still.

 _You tell me, Holland_ , Talya said. _You know your soul, dear. You know your craft. The real question is, do you think it’s working?_

Holland smiled, eyes still closed, breath still even. _Yes._

It isn’t a lie. He feels every inch of his body. Despite the darkness, despite his inability to focus enough to see, Holland can _feel_. The air moving in and out of his lungs. A pulse, low and steady, in his neck. His fingers waving idly in the air. The soft, spectral wind of the Veil sighing around him, pulling him upward.

 _There. Perfect, Holland,_ Talya said, encouraging. _See, you haven’t forgotten how_.

 _My mind hasn’t, but my body certainly has. Feels like the first time ever_. Holland exhales. He rolls his shoulders, tightens the muscles of his legs, fixes his fingers and toes. He takes another, measured inhale and squeezes his eyes shut. 

_Holland?_

_Just a moment, Tal._

_Had an idea, have you?_

_Indeed._

Holland feels the Veil shift around him, the familiar feeling of doors opening around him at will. Under _his will_. Voices and air swirled around him, unseen hands snagging at his clothes and brushing through his dark hair. Easy, familiar, the same as it ever was. A process so often repeated, Holland wondered if he could ever know how to live without it. A habit he feared would never come naturally to him again.

He felt warmth flood around him and the world settle into place. With a final exhale, Holland opened his eyes and smiled. Before him lay the ghostly grey imprint of his own bedroom on the Sanctuary’s fourth floor. He is seated on his bed, mere inches from where his body lay dressed and washed by Talya. 

In front of him stood the woman herself, exactly how he remembered her. Her dancer’s body is small and sturdy, but no less graceful. Dark curls lay over her shoulders and down her back, framing her heart shaped face. Abundant freckles and bright hazel eyes, quick and clever. She was dressed in the blue silk dress he had bought her. A birthday present, saved for over months and months. It was more than a bit out of style for current tastes, something Talya would have been upset over in life. 

Holland knew she still wore for him and him alone.

“This is unexpected,” Talya said, lips pulling into a smile.

Holland pushes himself up to standing. “I’ll probably be useless after this, but I wanted to try.” He steps forward and wraps Talya in a firm embrace. The closest thing to true touch he had felt in months. “I did well, I suppose?”

“Quite well, dear,” Talya murmurs in his ear, then presses a kiss to his cheek. Lithe fingers run through his hair, skim over his shoulders and back. “This is far sooner than I imagined, but I’m glad. Perhaps we can try something else today, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“That depends,” Holland buried his nose in her curls. She still smelled of lilacs, just as he remembered of her in life and during their seances. “What are you planning?”

“Well… if you’re able to pull yourself out this far on your own,” Talya leaned away and pointed over his shoulder. “What’s one more rung on the ladder?”

Holland pulled away and turned in the direction Talya was pointing. His body, curled onto his side on top of the covers. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you’d like me to try taking back over?”

“Precisely, but I won’t push, and I won’t make you do it for long,” Talya explained, still holding one of his hands in hers. “I just thought we might be able to try.”

“We might,” Holland agreed, quietly observing his prone form and taking stock of his spectral one. “I feel relatively upright for the time being. I don’t see why not.”

“Good, that’s a good sign.” Talya pulled him back and turned him to face the rest of the bedroom. “Besides, I believe someone has missed you a great deal.”

Holland’s heart squeezed in his chest -- another good sign, he told himself. Kell was laying in the armchair fast asleep, a book propped against his chest and red hair falling over his eyes. He looked thinner than before, his freckles faded to nothing and cheekbones sharper. Right at the edge of truly unhealthy. 

“He never left your side, dear. I had to frighten him into eating a meal and taking a bath in the beginning.”

“Has he been better since?”

“Somewhat. He still insists on sleeping within arm’s reach, should anything happen to you.”

Holland smiled faintly. “Loyal to a fault…”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Then let me thank him myself, Tal,” Holland said, turning to lower himself back onto the bed. “Before my reserves run out.”

“Of course,” Talya followed, seating herself just at the edge. 

She instructed him to lay exactly in the exact shape of his body on the bed and close his eyes; to fall into the pattern he knew so well and hold his hand for the energy she could pass to him. He did exactly as she said, trusting her as fully as he had when this arrangement had started. He let her lead, let her guide him into a suspended peace. 

There was silence and darkness -- old friends to him now --then clarity.

Holland felt himself fit the edges of his body. Felt the nerves in his skin, the blood warm his skin, the weight of clothes on his shoulders, and the mattress sinking beneath him. He inhales, smiling in quiet victory at the sensation. Cold, clean air. He opens his eyes and, as if doing it for the very first time, sits up. It’s dizzying for a moment, then his blood settles out. 

Somewhere, Talya was helping him pull the strings. Somewhere, she was keeping his spine straight, his shoulders level. Somewhere, Talya was feeding him all the energy she could spare. Quietly, he thanked her and carefully stood up.

“Kell?”

“Hmm?” the redhead stirs, his book falling off his chest. Kell blinks and sniffs, rolling his head from side to side on his shoulders. He stills as his blue eyes focus on Holland. “Oh, sorry. Do you need something, Talya?”

Holland grins wide. “Not Talya.”

Kell sits up straighter. “H-Holland? Is that… is that really you?”

“Yes, it is,” Holland reaches out for one of Kell’s hands. “It won’t last, I don’t have the endurance yet. I can for a few moments now, but I’m getting stronger.”

Kell pulls himself to the edge of his seat. He leans forward, running his hands up Holland’s jaw and neck, through his hair and over the edge of his shirt collar. “My gods… It. It worked.”

“It’s _working_ , darling,” Holland corrects gently. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For coming back for me. What else for?” Holland smiles as he pulls Kell in for a kiss.


	6. River (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I misunderstood the assignment... on purpose. The original prompt was "ocean", but because I'm stubborn and was hell-bent on making this part of the 1940s AU, I changed it to "river" and you will see why. I think it's a pretty good substitute and very much like Beat-Reporter Kell, even if Nasi doesn't.
> 
> 1940s AU; Holland Vosijk, Nasi, and Kell Maresh (plus some NPC OCs I made to build out the neighborhood)
> 
> CW: Nothing here. Please enjoy!

When the reporter fell in the East River, the whole neighborhood had heard about it by lunch time. 

They had seen him before, tall and redheaded, poking around the grocers’ and tailors’ shops. Joseph said he was stupid, shallow, looking to turn their small corner of the city into a sob story for the wealthy elites. Salvatore laughed his brother’s suspicions off, insisting the reporter was young and green, more of a brown-noser with ambition than a threat. He introduced himself as Kell Maresh, a beat reporter for  _ The Gazette _ . 

Not one person on the block had ever heard of the paper, all assuming it was one of those small self-published things that never made it out of uptown. One of those altruistic, charity-mongering type rags that Daniel Schwartz got detention for calling “tragedy porn” in class.

No one could agree on exactly what the reporter was doing the morning of his accidental swim, but there were plenty of guesses. He was trying to get a closer look at a seagull, a tugboat, the garbage barge.  _ The Gazette _ was interested in the dock workers, the semi-famous fish market, and the view of the bridges from right there. Or he had caught sight of a dead body, perhaps the Giambattista cousin who slighted the White Twins weeks earlier and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. 

What the neighborhood could agree on was that it was Natasha Vosijk who fished him out.

The way Nasi would later tell it -- to the group of kids Holland called the Irregulars for some reason -- she had been following the trail of a missing pearl necklace when she saw the redhead drop into the water. Being the bravest and most resourceful of them all, Nasi ran down to the docks, grabbing some boat rope, and reeled him in herself. From her perch atop the Good Humor ice cream truck, Nasi looked and sounded as impressive as she liked.

Later, at home, Nasi would sheepishly admit the truth to Holland, the man everyone in the neighborhood knew as her father. He was a younger man of few words, strikingly no nonsense from several years in the military. Silent, straight-faced, and dark-haired, Holland Vosijk was the exact opposite of the fair-haired girl he called his daughter. Underneath the stiff exterior, however, Nasi knew for a fact he was soft and understanding. 

He had a way of getting the truth out of her whenever no one else could.

“All right, Natasha,” Holland said, setting a bowl of soup in front of her. “You’ve had enough fun with your hero tale. Tell me. What’s the truth?”

Nasi wrinkled her nose. She hated cabbage soup and “Natasha” meant she was close to being in trouble. Although, truthfully, Holland had never really punished her. In fact, he’d never been cross with her. Only disappointed and that was somehow worse.

“ _ Natulya _ ,” Holland pressed in his soft, deep voice. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen and motioned her to speak. “Honesty, please.”

“Fine,” Nasi sighed. She pushed around the slivers of cabbage with her spoon, wishing they were noodles instead. “I, um, skipped school today, and was sitting on the dock to think. I’m still… I just wanted to find the Manfredy’s cat today!”

Holland waved her exclamation away. “We’ll talk about your dislike of classrooms later. So, you were at the river. Then what? Did you see him, or did he approach you?”

“I saw him,” Nasi answered matter-of-factly. “He was lost, looking for the White Rat lounge, and he was stupid enough to go ask  _ Mr. Anastasia _ about it! And I’m just trying to enjoy my sandwich and they were being loud!”

“Did Mr. Anastasia push him in?”

Nasi shook her head. “No, he tripped over his own shoelace. I just distracted Mr. Anastasia so the reporter could walk away and be less annoying. He’s  _ really _ annoying, do you know that?”

“So he tripped?” Holland said with a smirk, taking a sip of tea to hide it. “And you helped pull him out?”

Nasi’s cheeks flamed pink and she shoved a few bites of soup into her mouth. She couldn’t keep quiet forever, and Holland knew that. He knew her and her mannerisms very well after nearly six years of caring for her after all. Well enough to know she hated cabbage, but could still make her eat it. Well enough to know how long to wait before the truth fell from her mouth on it’s own.

“Mr. Anastasia... pulled him out,” Nasi muttered to her bowl. “I just found the rope on the dock for him… kind of.” Nasi deflated some more. “Fine, Davy got the rope. I was just there…”

Holland sipped his tea, drumming his fingers on their tiny dining table. “You lied to your friends, then?”

“Kind of…”

“Then I expect you to apologize to them for being dishonest. Tomorrow, at school.”

“But Holland--!”

“Calm, Natasha.” Holland raised a hand to quiet her. “Perhaps ‘lied’ isn’t the best word…”

“Embellished, maybe?” Nasi suggests.

Holland stares at her, bewildered. 

“What?” Nasi asks between wincing bites. “I know big words too. Sometimes.”

“So it would seem,” Holland smiled softly. He sets his teacup down, levelling green eyes at her. They were only warm when he drank or spoke to Nasi; otherwise, they were the same flat, serious green. “But I expect you to tell your friends the truth, sooner rather than later.”

“But  _ why _ ?”

“Because you should. There is more to life than being impressive or embellishing stories.” Holland replied simply. “One day, hopefully, you will realize that life is nicer when it is predictable. Trust me. I wish for boring days more often than not.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You know, Nancy–.”

“ _ Nasi _ .”

“Right, sorry.  _ Nasi,”  _ Kell repeats, then clears his throat. “You know,  _ Nasi _ , we have a saying around here. It’s ‘sharing is caring’. Do you know what I’m mean, what I’m saying here?”

Nasi huffs and rolls her eyes. Be kind to the reporter no matter how annoying, Holland said. Apologize and tell the truth, Holland said. She wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for him, if she hadn’t done what he had asked her to do. It wasn’t her fault that Holland could look at her and see the lie on her face, even if it was only a white lie.

A month earlier, Nasi had watched Kell Maresh fall face-first into the East River. Now, she had become his fixer, a source. And, no matter what she did, Nasi couldn’t seem to shake him. Just her luck, Holland thought it was funny -- a sort of poetic turn of events.

The reporter had been following her ever since she caught him all turned around in the Giambatista’s grocery store an hour and a half earlier. This john –- which is what Nasi called him in her head even though Holland told her it didn’t mean what she thought it meant and that she shouldn’t listen to everything Magdalena at the end of the hall said. –- just didn’t know how to get along by himself. Not to mention he misspelled her name in every article he ever wrote.

_ Nancy _ or Nellie or Nasie Voschek or Voschick or Vosjisk.

Natasha “Nasi” Vosijk. It really wasn’t that hard.

“I need an answer, Nasi.” Kell sighs, shoving his hands low in his coat pockets. 

Nasi scowls at him. “I know what you’re saying, paper boy. I speak your English better than you do. But I’m not telling and you can’t make me.”

Kell’s red eyebrows raised to his hairline. “I’m the adult here.”

“So?”

“So? You’re what, ten? You should be in school.”

“And you should be better at following your own story,” Nasi snaps back. She holds out a hand. “Gimme your rinky-dink notebook.”

Kell scoffs. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because sharing is caring, paper boy." Nasi rolled her eyes and held out her hand. "Now gimme your notebook. You’ll thank me later.”


	7. Hurt/Comfort (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s AU featuring Nasi and Holland Vosijk, plus a mention or two of the Dane Twins. This piece is dedicated to the wonderful @pinkcupboardwitch and @dr-dendritic-trees for starting the conversation that would eventually lead to this AU. You may have seen the incredible pieces they have written and posted (the Antari selkies are my absolute favorites). They are truly amazing and I should honestly tell them more often.
> 
> CW: Blood, injuries, and description of said injuries (nothing gratuitous or graphic, but be aware none the less)

Hard rain was an omen.

If Nasi plumbed the hazy depths of her young memories, she could find the voice of a woman telling her so. She guessed the woman was her mother, but Nasi had long resigned herself to the knowledge that she would never really remember. As far as she knew, her parents were gone. Holland was who she relied on now.

And Holland was gone. Gone for four whole days now. Vanished without a trace on Thursday morning. Salvatore at the corner butcher’s shop was the last person to see him, stepping into a fancy white car, neatly dressed for work.

The sky had opened up on Thursday at dinner time. It had not let up since.

_ Hard rain is an omen, Nastya. Cleansing, but a sign. Of what, I don’t know. My mind says bad. _

Nasi felt this was a bad omen too. First, Holland came home with a split lip. Then the appearance of the cracked white rook. Nasi glared at the white chess piece from Holland’s armchair, a blanket cocooned around her. It sat on top of the radio where Holland had discarded it the moment it arrived. Nasi swore it glared back at her, maybe taunting her from its perch. Nasi hated the little thing. She knew that it was the reason Holland was taken.

The calling card of the White Twins.

Holland never told her who he worked for, what he did. Nasi only knew that he was always paid on Mondays and did something with money. He came home every night, paid their rent on time, and always had money for groceries plus a little extra for sweets on Saturdays. Nasi had asked around the neighborhood for any more clues, like the proper detective she was going to be, but no one gave her anything.

Salvatore and Joseph said he did people’s taxes, subtly implying the Feds had picked him up.

Daniel Schwartz at school said he did jobs for the mob before his mother shushed him up. Mrs. Schwartz had insisted Nasi stay for dinner that night.

Mrs. Bustamante, Mrs. Manfredy, and Mrs. Goldstein all said he was just an accountant. Pat on the head, not to worry.

Nasi had done nothing but worry for four whole days. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and now Sunday. All consumed by worry, not for herself but for Holland. She had counted the clock ticking, kept the radio off so she could hear footsteps better. She even did her homework to try passing the time. Holland had called her resourceful and admonished her for skipping school all in the same breath. Kell Maresh, the  _ Gazette _ reporter, once called her a “scrapper”, which came out like a complement but Nasi didn’t like it either way. Nasi could braid her own hair and dress herself for school. She could keep the apartment clean and act like normal. She had figured out how to heat up the flood Holland kept in the freezer just in case.

Nasi could take care of herself and told anyone who would listen.

But she couldn’t deny the seasick feeling in her stomach. The lingering thought that she didn’t want to be alone, not really. 

She sipped soup from a small bowl and glared at the white rook. Tomorrow, she would smash it to chalk-colored dust and skip school to look for Holland. That was her plan, that’s what she would do.

_ Thunk _ .

Nasi jumped, clamping a hand down over her mouth. Something heavy and solid had connected with the apartment door. Another, stranger sound told her whatever it was was sliding to the floor. Nasi held her breath, counting slowly to sixteen. Slowly, she unfolded herself from the armchair and walked to the front door, blanket trailing behind her. She stood on her toes, reaching up to undo the two side locks before opening the main lock and turning the door handle.

She regretted pulling the door open so quickly. But, to be fair, Nasi was expecting a murderer or the White Twins themselves to jump out and grab her.

Instead, Holland collapsed backwards onto the wooden floor, face bloody and eyes closed. If it weren’t for the groan that escaped when his head cracked against the boards, Nasi would have thought he was dead. Immediately, Nasi dropped to her knees, frantically wiping at his face with both her hands.

“Holland, can you hear me?”

“Ah! Ow…” Holland mumbled through bloody lips. He lifted a hand, also cut up and bruised, pushing Nasi’s hand away. “Natasha,  _ eto… pozhaluysta, prekrati… _ ”

Nasi pulled her hands away. “ _ Mne zhal _ , I’m sorry. What, what should I do?”

Holland swallowed tightly, then started to push himself up to sitting. “Help… Help me up. Couch, please.”

Nasi nodded, dropping the blanket so Holland could get a decent grip on her shoulder. He managed to stand, balancing unsteadily between the wall and Nasi’s shoulder. She knew he wouldn’t put his full weight on her. She carefully walked him over to the couch, holding his hands as he eased himself down onto the cushions. 

“Now ice?” Nasi asked, nearly bouncing with worry.

“Close the door,” Holland said, pointing across the small room. “Then ice. Please.”

Nasi moved quickly. First to the door, shutting it quietly and sliding all three locks into place. She collected her blanket, tucking it in around Holland’s knees before darting into the kitchen. He was still wearing the same clothes from days earlier, his collar stained rusty brown and sweater torn in four paces. His coat was damp and his hat was gone -- the same dark grey one he had saved for months to buy.

Nasi’s heart pounded. She piled some ice into a tea towel and ran it out to Holland. Then she put the kettle on the stove for tea; the dark and richly spiced one Mrs. Maatev downstairs gave them when she found out where Holland was from. Nasi was supposed to call her “Mrs. Maatev” but Holland always called her “Alma.” Nasi soaked a rag as the tea steeped, then delivered both to Holland.

“ _ Spasiba _ ,” Holland managed a pained smile. He rested the tea cup on his leg, wiping the blood from his face. Nasi sat curled up next to him, horrified at the gashes and bruises being revealed. He held the soiled rag back out to her. “How did I do, Natasha?”

“Missed a spot.” Nasi took the rag and began blotting at the split in his eyebrow, black eye, the tear in his cheek. “Missed a few spots… They must’ve hit you really hard Holl.You sound like the old country.”

Holland hummed. “They did--. I’m sorry, no. A child shouldn’t hear this.”

“I’m ten, not a baby.”

“Still too young to hear this,” Holland sighed.

Nasi pulled back, realizing the rag wouldn’t erase all the damage done. “I was worried. You worried me. You were gone for so long,” she admitted in a small voice. She poked at Holland’s hand, cut up and bruised too. “Drink your tea. There’s soup too, if--.”

“I worried for you too,” Holland whispered. “I was so worried they had taken you too, Nasi.”

Nasi wrinkled her nose. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, and you did,” Holland answered. “But… the Twins, they do what they like and take what they want. If they… I had wondered if they had taken you too, once they had me. You’ve been through enough for only being ten, Nasi. You don’t deserve anymore hardship, not if I can prevent it.”

Holland finally took a drink and the pair fell silent. Nasi knelt next to him on the couch cushions, watching Holland lean back and close his eyes. The teacup remained cradled in both his hands, the delicate china looking as out of place there as it did in the rest of the apartment. 

Rain poured outside the windows, pattering against the glass and sloshing out of the tin gutters. The walls creaked, the groaning old building settling around them. Holland breathed slowly, deeply, very nearly asleep. And Nasi remained perfectly still, studying his face, the line of his neck and shoulders. She soon absorbed herself in counting the injuries, cataloguing them in her head for later. The ragged gash running from temple to cheek, the round-edged bruises littering his jaw. The black eye turned a sickening shade of purplish-yellow. The bloody stains poking up from his shirt collar.

Nasi reached a hand out, then paused in mid-air. She blinked, curled her fingers into her palm, and rested it back in her lap. 

She couldn’t fix this. But she would try later. 

She turned and dropped the damp rag on the floor. Careful not to slosh his tea, Nasi turned around and fit herself in between Holland’s shoulder and the couch cushions. Holland hummed and shifted as she pressed her face to his damp coat sleeve. Tears leaked down her cheeks, soaking unnoticed into the grey wool. She sniffed lightly, wilting when the sound came out louder than she meant it to.

For a brief terrifying moment, Holland sat up and pulled away. Nasi wanted to lunge after him, beg he didn’t get up and leave her alone on the sofa. Holland noticed, shushing her lightly, then went about setting his tea on the side table, shedding his coat, shoes, and ruined sweater. The shirt underneath was even more ruined but the older man didn’t pay it any attention, and neither did Nasi. 

“Come here, Nasi.” Holland motioned her forward, pulling her against his chest as he slowly laid out on the sofa. Nasi buries herself against his chest, careful of his injuries and ignoring the smell of blood on his skin. He pulled the blanket over her, holding her like a baby. “What is it?”

She shakes her head and sniffs, tears coming on faster now. 

“ _ V’chem delo, Natulya _ ,” Holland says, low and even in time with his breathing. “ _ Skazhi-ka? _ ”

Nasi takes in a watery breath and relents. “I was so scared.”


	8. Eight (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s AU featuring one Astrid Dane and a very unfortunate victim, plus a few mentions of Athos and Holland. Dedicated to itsalwaystheapocalypse, mostly because I thought you’d appreciate the whump and Astrid’s showmanship :)
> 
> Warnings for: Gun violence, blood, death, discussions of death and violence. (It’s the whumpiest of the chapters so far, so bear in mind.)

“Can you really blame me?” Astrid grinned at the man in front of her. She crossed her legs high in the thigh and reached into the pockets of her robe. “For wanting to put on a show? I mean, what is New York if you don’t have even the littlest flair for drama?”

The man wrestled against the cords around his arms, wrists, knees and ankles. He only succeeded in rocking the chair dangerously, threatening to topple him on to the floor. The handkerchief gag Athos had jammed into his mouth hours before was soaked through with spit, but he’d given up trying to rid himself of that immediately.

“I’m sure you’ve read the papers. You and your boss are capable of reading between the lines,” Astrid mused. Her hand hit what she was looking for and she turned to the man with a surprised movie-star expression. She extracted an ornate silver lighter, studded with red jewels. “Well, look at what we have here!”

The man’s brows crease in confusion.

“Oh, don’t strain your head, sweetie. I’ll put one and one together for you in no time,” Astrid cheered. She tucked her other hand into another pocket and pulled out a silver revolver. Then the man’s eyes lit up in terror. “That’s what does it huh? Everyone sees the gun and knows what’s up. Clearly, you haven’t been listening.”

Astrid slides her chair closer to the man, relishing in the speed and shallowness of his breathing. 

“You know, my mother once said I should have been a chorus girl. I have a lovely singing voice, did you know that?” She talked, tilting her head back and forth as she heated the metal, watching it’s sheen alter as it warmed. “I know every song in the show books, could probably put Garland out of work or something. But that’s too clean-cut for me, don’t you think?”

Like a magician in the midst of a stage show, she held up the gun and then the lighter. The lighter burst to life with a flourish, the little flame dancing in the air of her bedroom. Astrid grinned at him, lowering the barrel of the revolver into the little flame.

“But you want to know what I’ve learned, in the last few years?”

She lets the lighter flicker out and holds the gun up to the man’s face. In one swift movement, she jams the heated barrel into his ribs. She watches, glee in her eyes, as the cotton of his shirt burns and skin sizzles. The man is screaming behind his gag, the cords keeping him from buckling forward. Satisfied, Astrid pulls the gun away, blowing on the end for show.

“Dramatic flair has a way of making things crystal clear.” Astrid hums, head tilting to the side. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

She cleans the end of her gun on the sleeve of her robe, leaving a smudged red stain on the crisp white silk. She smiles at it and revels in the pained sounds of the man next to her. The weakened whimpers, groans and half-coughs strangled by the fabric gag still stuffed between his teeth. They were rejuvenating, refreshing. The perfect thing to lift her spirit before that evening’s grand opening. 

“I’m so glad you do.”

She regards her captive with a sweet smile, then stands and wanders to her vanity. She seats herself on the little stool, fanning her robe out around her like Carole Lombard, and regarding her makeup and perfumes with the eye of a painter. Humming softly to herself, Astrid pins her hair back from her face, selecting a lipstick, a perfect warm red to match the stain on her sleeve. 

The last touch was a dab of perfume on each of her pulse points. A special blend one of their customers had made for her and assuredly one of her favorites -- sultry amber and heliotrope, sweet and dark with a heavy splash of debauchery and corruption. 

“Black or white?” Astrid asks, moving to the bed where she had two suits laid out there. Both tailored exactly to her short, willowy frame. Designed to make her alluring and dangerous. She runs her hand over the slick sharkskin fabric of the black, the delicate pinstripes of the white, then turns around. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer.”

She pats the pocket holding the pistol, a clear warning to the poor sap tied to the chair. The man makes some noise behind the gag.

Astrid grins widely. “You’re absolutely right, white is my color. Thank you dear.”

She dresses and undresses with all the air of a strip-tease. Slowly unwrapping the robe, sliding one shoulder off after the other, the perfect arch in her foot and delicate slide of nylons over her calves. Buttoning up her blouse, sliding into her trousers, and propping her foot against the bedpost as she fastened her heels. She tosses the blazer over her shoulder and saunters back across the room, dropping down in front of her captive. She weighs the pistol in her hand before resting it on her thigh.

“I’m going to do you a favor right now.” Astrid reaches forward, hooking a finger to pull the gag out of the man’s mouth. “Now, say thank you like your mother taught you.”

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” the man hisses, then spits at her shoes. “Fuck you  _ and  _ your shit brother.”

“Hmm, I certainly don’t like that,” Astrid muses, inspected her manicure for a moment. She taps one nail on the metal body. “And to think, I might have let you live to see tomorrow…” She raises the gun, aiming it at the center of the man’s forehead. “Ah well. I needed another accessory for tonight anyway.”

With a practiced hand, Astrid fires the gun. She closes her eyes, inhaling the metal and ash smell, the fresh warm smell of blood and skin. A wide smile spreading on her face, Astrid opened her eyes. 

“There, perfect. Don’t wait up, dear.” 

She stood and pushed the chair over on her wait out of the bedroom. She and Athos would handle the body later. As she strode through the house and down the stairs to her waiting car, Astrid noted it was the eighth partner they had to do away with this week. The workers were getting a little light-fingered with the cash box, skimming more off the top than she and Athos normally allowed for.

It was a shame really, such bad luck on the eve of their next nightclub opening. 

She’d have to talk to Holland about that. It had only been a few weeks since their last talking to and Astrid didn’t relish having to do it again. It wasn’t fun anymore. The man was used to their punishments now, after nearly six years of working with them. He just bit his cheek, tucked his head, and took as many blows as they decided to give him. Sending him home the last time bruised and bloody wasn’t nearly as fun as it used to be. Seeing the gashed up cheek and black eye as they healed didn’t thrill her the way she knew they should.

Holland was the best accountant they had had since before the war -- the man was meticulous, detail-oriented, and always had an answer when asked. But she would have to up the ante, she supposed. It would be a shame to lose him. 

Not that it would come to that. 

Astrid pulled on her gloves as the car pulled away from the curb.  She glanced out the windows, watching the lights and glowing marquees pass as they drove through the city. She smiled, noting the bright spatter of red blood over her pale skin and paler blonde hair. A vivid constellation of gore that gave the illusion of a face veil. A proper accessory for opening night, the right top note for her very special perfume.

It wouldn’t come to that, not over a few hundred when they had tens of thousands in their coffers. Not when it was easier to eliminate the thief than replace Holland. But the man had been less than focused as of late and Astrid would have to remind him where his loyalties should lie. Remind him who had financed the life he was so desperately proud of.

Remind him who had gotten those perfectly forged papers so he could better pretend to be that little girl’s father.

“Oh, now there’s a thought.”


	9. Illness (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For August Writer’s Month day 9 prompt, “Illness”. This is the Modern AU, where Holland is from West Virginia, he attends Harvard, Talya is still alive, and Kell has a bad crush. If this is in anyway intriguing to you, I started (but have not finished) a fic in this world called The Brightener that is available for reading. Fingers crossed I get back to finishing it someday soon. 
> 
> I wrote this specific piece a few months ago, but am finally publishing it on Ao3 now. This was a request by the lovely pinkcupboardwitch who has been my main sounding board and canon idea factory for this AU. I hope it's as good as you remember!
> 
> CW: sickfic (Holland has the flu), vomiting, fever dreams, discussion of past deaths, death imagery, panic. If you have ANY concerns about the content whatsoever, please get in touch and I’ll be happy to give more specific detail.

“Geez, did you pull  _ another _ all-nighter?” 

Holland blinked and inhaled, yawning wide without meaning to. When he came back to himself, he looked over to see Talya in the seat next to him. “Oh. Hey Tal.”

“Did you..?” Talya started, then stopped. She shook her head, but no smile appeared. “Never mind. You look like death warmed over, Holl. Like, how are you even out of bed?”

“I’m fine, Tal,” Holland answered, vaguely aware that the everything about him said otherwise. He was slurring his words a touch and all but melting into his lecture seat. “Didn’t sleep well. That all.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Talya scoffed, pulling her notebook and pencil out of her bag. She dropped both with a clatter that made Holland wince. He’d been nursing a headache all morning. “Is today your busy day?”

“Mhmm,” Holland manages, slouching lower in his seat. He had classes, three tutoring sessions, and a department meeting for teaching assistants. All he needed was to finish his coffee, then he could rally. He just needed a little boost to his system and he’d be right as rain. He was fine, he would be fine. He just had to get warmed up. He didn't expect Talya to know that.

A palm smacked against his forehead. Holland winced, then glanced up into Talya’s displeased face.

“The hell, Tal?” He tried for teasing with a smile, but it fell flat. He just sounded exhausted, bored.

“You’re sweaty, you’re flushed, you’re squinting at the lights, and I’m more than ninety-percent sure you have a fever,” Talya answered in an exacting, clipped tone. “I’ll take notes for this class then. I’m taking you home.”

Holland shook his head frantically, ignoring the skull-deep ache it roused. “Talya, no, I’ve got--.”

“You’ve got a fever.”

“But my classes! I have students and my tutoring!”

“Reschedule. Call out sick because you are, Holland.”

“I can’t just do that!” Holland protests. His voice is scratchy and strained.

Talya raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Why not?!” Holland pushed himself back up to sitting.His stomach went sour and grimaced. “I can’t just abandon them because I’m a little worn out! I have  _ responsibilities _ , Talya.”

“A  _ little _ ?” Talya laughed. “A little worn out, Holland? Rode hard and put away soaking wet more like it.”

“Don’t use my turn of phrase against me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taught it to me.”

Holland scowled at her. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling one hundred percent himself, but he had obligations and responsibilities. He was an adult. He students were counting on him dammit. Not to mention his own grades and graduation depended on his attending. His following through and showing up. It was the only reason he had gotten anywhere in this life. Holland wasn’t about to quit on it now.

“It’s just a stupid cold, Talya,” Holland groused, sliding back down in his chair. “My sweater is too heavy and I have a cold. That’s it. Stop worrying.”

“I’ll worry for the both of us if I like, you hard-headed asshole,” Talya grumbled. She flipped her notebook open and settled in for class.

~*~*~

Holland fell asleep during lecture -- something he’d never done before in his life. Not when he was adjusting out of kindergarten nap time, not when he was sleeping five hours a night outside, not after drunken benders or even one night stands. Holland Vosijk had never once fallen asleep in class. And Talya hadn’t even had the decency to wake him back up before their professor was finished.

He woke up feeling even worse. 

His head pounded and squeezed. His eyes ached and watered, never quite focusing on anything around him. The back of his thick winter sweater was damp with a fresh seat, evidence of hot boiling hot he was now. Everything ached. His stomach clenched and lurched uncomfortably. The room blurred and wobbled when he stood. It wasn’t until the outside hallway swirled and sparkled rainbow in front of his eyes that Holland finally yielded. He let Talya loop an arm under his, her petite dancer’s body supporting half of his weight and guide him home.

“Okay, Holl, here’s the plan,” Talya said gently. She stripped his sweater off over his head, tugging a clean tee shirt on instead and pushing him onto his bed. “You’re going to give me your phone passcode and I’m going to email your profs saying you can’t make it today.”

“Talya, I just need a --.”

“Then I’m gonna do the same thing for your advisor, just in case.”

“W-Wait, Tall-.”

“And last, I’m going to email that redheaded kid with the crush on you. I’m sure he’ll help.” Talya smiled brightly. “Any questions?”

“Trash can,” Holland muttered, pointing. “Now. Please.”

She delivered it to the floor next to him just in time. Holland’s stomach lurched again, then emptied itself. It burned his throat, nothing but stomach acid and black coffee. The room went grey and fuzzy around him as Holland wilted onto his sheets and pillows. Next thing he knew, soft fingers ran through his hair and a glass of water was held up to his face.

“Rinse and spit,” Talya instructed.

Holland did as she asked, feeling more disgusting than before. He handed her the glass back. “Thanks, Tal.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No. Really.”

“I know, Holl.” Talya sat down and began rummaging through his backpack. “You’re stubborn as fuck and you’re lucky its one of the things I love about you. But you can still buy me dinner when you’re feeling better.” She carefully moved the trash can away, still picking through the pockets with one hand. After a second, she looked back at him -- all hazel eyes, dark tumbling curls, and freckles. “I know you’re worried about missing everything, but I’m gonna take care of it Holl. And you. So… so just stay in bed and rest up okay?”

Holland nodded, finally resigned to his condition. His last resistance had left his body with the bile.

“Good. Thank you. Now,” Talya pulled his cellphone out of his bag with a victorious smile. “Lets see what your redheaded friend is up to this evening?”

Holland just groaned and closed his eyes.

~*~*~

Kell Maresh arrived exactly twenty-two minutes later with an over-full grocery bag to go with his school bag. With a sheepish smile, he stepped into Holland’s apartment and held the bag out to Talya. 

“It’s a bunch of stuff, to help,” He explained. “Tea, painkillers, cough drops, those broth cubes you drop in hot water.”

“You brought a pharmacy?” Talya stared at him, impressed.

Kell nodded. “Kind of. Just in case he didn’t have stuff. Oh! There’s a thermometer in there too. It’s clean, I swear. Brand new.”

“Wow… This is great. He’s got a fever, but I don’t know how high and I’ve got class soon,” Talya looked the young man up and down, chewing deeply into her lower lip. “Are you okay if I leave you alone?”

“Oh sure,” Kell said, shedding his coat. “I’ve taken care of my brother loads of times since high school. It’ll be easy. So, fever, sweats… Can he keep anything down?”

Talya shrugged. “He threw up a half-hour ago, so I haven’t tried yet. I don’t think he’s eaten anything today. You’re welcome to try, but I don’t know.”

Kell nodded to himself, glancing around Holland’s apartment. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about being invited over -- current circumstances aside. It was utilitarian, spartan and clean save for a scant few houseplants and jam-packed bookshelves. There wasn’t a television, but there were two couches around a coffee table and a neat little kitchen off to the side. Kell had imagined as much -- perhaps more books and coffee cups strewn around. He set his coat and bag on the couch , noting the cracked bedroom door.

“Go to class,” Kell said quietly, turning back to the shorter, older girl. “I can keep an eye on him for as long as you need. Get his temp, make sure he stays in bed, gets fluids, the whole nine yards.”

“You sure?” Talya bounced from one foot to the other, clearly on the fence about leaving the two young men to their own devices.

“Completely,” Kell stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I, um… I can stay overnight too, if you want the help.”

Talya nodded, still a little distance looking. “I hope I don’t, Kell, but thanks for the offer. I’ll make sure you have my number if you need anything. Let me just,” she rifled through the thin plastic bag, pulling out the thermometer. “Let me do this first. Just so I know what we’re dealing with.”

~*~*~

Holland was drifting, warm and heavy.

It wasn’t a wholly unpleasant feeling — he knew it was from whatever bug his body was working through, but it was comforting. It wasn’t hard to stay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep for hours, when it felt like this.

He heard footsteps coming in and out of his room, the door opening and closing in time. Blankets shifted on top of him, hair was pushed off his forehead. Hands pressed to his skin, fingers pressed into his neck, something cold placed against his lips. All the while he stayed flat on his back.

“Holl, you awake?” A voice whispered in his ear. Not Talya, not Kell. He knew that much, but couldn’t be bothered to answer. A finger tapped his nose. “C’mon, answer me.”

“Hnn, no,” Holland mumbled. He couldn’t even lift an arm to push the hand away. “G’way.”

“Open your eyes and I will,” the voice teased softly. More tapping. Holland wiggled his nose and tried to shift away from the voice. “C’mon little brother, open your eyes. It goes away when you open your eyes, you know the rules.”

“Ugh, fine,” Holland grumbled. He tilted his head to the side, exhaled sharply, and opened his eyes. He blinked, slow and even, until he could focus on the person sitting on the bed next to him. He took gentle stock of them — thin but strong in the shoulders; large hands clasped in his lap, legs dangling off the bed; curling dark hair falling in front of light eyes. 

“There he goes, now he’s awake,” Alox laughed. “How ya feeling, little brother?”

Holland rolled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to wipe the cottony feeling away. “A-Alox? Y-You’re here?”

“Here where?” Alox grinned and winked. “Just teasing, Holl. I guess you’re having fever dreams then. It’s okay, you’re home.”

“Home? Really?” Holland rasped. He rolled his head to look around. The window light was how he remembered it, shaded by the tree in the front yard. His mother’s quilt was spread over his legs. And Alox was there, looking after him just as he did when he was younger.

“Yeah, where else would you be? Like I’d let you go to school this way, gettin’ everyone else sick.” Alox shifted, leaning forward. He rests his hand against Holland’s forehead, real and solid.

Holland’s heart leaps. He leans into his brother’s palm, smiling. Deep down inside, he knows it isn’t real. That Alox will disappear again, but he can’t bring himself to believe it. Alox was back, was right next to him, and was taking care of him. Just like before, just like when he was little. He was in the home he had left behind so many years ago and wanted so desperately to return to.

If Alox was there… could they all be?

Holland whimpered softly as his brother’s hand left his forehead. He tried to grab the hand back, but his arms wouldn’t move. He made another helpless noise and Alox rested a hand on his legs.

“Wow, you must have had some dream. Or maybe a nightmare since you’re acting so weird.”

“I th-thought you were, y-you were gone,” Holland whispered. “You, you…”

“Oh, definitely a nightmare,” Alox said, nodding sagely. He adjusted the scarf around his neck, loosening it. “If you weren’t sick, I might hit you for imagining I wasn’t here. But I won’t.”

“Cause I’m sick?” Holland smirked, exhausted.

“Yeah, because you’re sick. I’ll get you back when you’re not.” Alox took a deep breath and coughed into his scarf. “Shit, you better not have given it to me. I don’t trust you to work the stove yet.”

“I didn’ get you sick. Stop whinin’.”

“Me? Whining?” Alox’s eyebrows raised to his hairline. “ I’m whining? That’s rich coming from mister ‘where’s my soup, my throat hurts, I hafta go to school’.”

“I’m not whining, you are.” Holland yawned, blinking. Alox looked different. The color had gone out of his cheeks and his eyes looked a little empty. Holland shook it away. “I miss you, ‘Lox.”

“Christ, you  _ are _ sick! I should go two down and get that nurse to come check you out. You think I’m annoying on a good day, Holl.”

“No I don’t. I like you jus’ fine,” Holland sniffed. “I love you an’ I miss you, a lot. I miss bein’ home, with you.”

Alox smiled gently, resting a hand in the middle of Holland’s chest. “I forget you can be sincere sometimes, you’re so quiet. Do you want anything? Soup or something? None of the weird tea mom used to give us, I promise. But maybe a ginger ale.”

“Co’cola?”

“I’ll check the fridge, sure.” 

Alox looked away, as if he heard something behind him. When he looked back at Holland, his scarf was wet, his hair dripping water down his face. His skin looked grey, his lips pale blue. His hand pressed harder into Holland’s chest.

“Alox?”

“Just rest, Holl. You’ll feel fine in a bit.” Water poured out of Alox’s mouth, running rivulets down to soak through his clothes and Holland’s blankets. He coughs again, leaves appearing in his teeth and twigs in his hair. Mud smeared the scarf, his eyes stayed wide and unblinking. 

“Alox, let go. You’re, you’re scaring--.”

“Just rest, Holl.”

Holland woke with a start, sweating and gasping. Dazed and panicking, he rolls onto his side, coughing helplessly. His throat burned, tears streamed down his cheeks from the strain of breathing. 

“Oh god, Holland? Holland are you okay? Shit.. Kell! Kell, I need help sitting him up, I think he’s choking.”

“What happened?” Holland felt himself being rolled over and pushed up to sitting. The room spun but he couldn’t quit coughing. “Oh gross. He’s all sweaty again, Talya.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s burning up. Coughing first, then cold shower, got it?”

“Got it.”

“Holl? Holland?” Warm hands cup and tap against his cheeks. “Can you talk, are you awake?”

Holland swallowed hard. That was Talya’s voice, her perfume smell. He nodded, still coughing. He was awake, he didn’t want to be. Alox had been right there, had touched him. It had been real. His heart squeezed painfully, more tears coming hot and thick.

“What did he choke on?” 

“Nothing so far as I can tell.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Bad dream. I think. Don’t know. I’m going to go turn the shower on, can you handle him?”

Whoever was holding him up -- Kell, his brain dimly reminded him. Kell Maresh, the pre-law kid who couldn’t pick out  _ Jane Eyre _ from a hole in the wall. -- shifted, holding him closer. “Yeah, I got him. Tell me when you’re good.”

Holland sniffed, slumping against Kell’s chest. He swallowed some more, the coughing slowly starting to calm. It was being replaced by more tears and burning embarrassment. “H-He was, he was right here. R-Right here.”

“Who, Holland?”

“Alox. Alox was here, he was here. He was.”


	10. Bunnies (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, featuring Holland and Alox Vosijk as kids growing up in Charleston, WV. Part of "The Brightener" modern AU, and a little fluffy piece to bridge the gap between chapter 9 and chapter 11. 
> 
> CW: No warning unless you don't like bunnies for some reason. All little kid fluff.

“Gentle, Holland, gentle. You have to be gentle with the little ones. Hold it like this, okay?” 

Holland stared up at his mother, wide-eyed and fascinated. Crouched in front of him with her black shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she adjusted his small hands in the soft fur of the bunny. She loosened his fingers and thumbs, cradling the small animal until she was satisfied with her youngest son. Only then did she replace the bunny in his hands.

“See?” She smiled at him. “They’ll be much happier with you now. Keep your hands just like that, okay sweet-pea?”

“Yes mama,” Holland answered, nodding his head. Black hair flopped in front of his eyes, his nose curling in dislike before he tried to blow it out of his face. All while balancing the grey bunny in his lap.

His mother just laughed and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Alright, I have to go help with the flowers now. Can you be good and stay right here on the steps for me?”

“Mhmm, I promise.”

“And you’ll keep a good watch on that rabbit, won’t you?”

“I’ll take good care of them, I will!”

“I know you will.” She leaned forward, kissing his forehead. “I’ll only be a little bit. You boys behave yourselves. Alox, you’re in charge. Take care of your brother and no wandering off, okay?”

Alox hopped off the church steps, landing loudly on the sidewalk next to Holland. “Yes ma’am, I will.”

“I know you will. See you in a little bit.”

Holland tried counting the steps from the click of his mother’s church shoes on the stone steps. His mother always dressed up to go to the church -- a pretty dress, shiny nice shoes with clicking heels, the warm black shawl his father had given her a long time ago. Long before he and Alox were even born. She insisted they get dressed up too, which Holland hated. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t wear his overalls and favorite boots like he did at home, but he never pitched a fit about it. Holland wouldn’t dream of doing anything to upset her on purpose.

So he sat on the very bottom step out front of their church and counted. He counted to twelve, which he didn’t think was right but shrugged it off. There were more important things than how many steps went up to the red front door or how much Holland hated wearing his khakis and nice shirt. Those more important things had everything to do with the grey bunny.

He kept his left hand cupped around the bunny’s belly -- just like his mother told him too - and used two fingers of his right to stroke from it’s head to its tail. Softly, slowly, feeling the grey fur run like warm water under his fingers. He watched, utterly delighted, as the little animal’s nose turned, its ears flick about at the sound of cars and the people decorating the inside of the church for Easter.

The bunnies were for the Easter pageant coming up that Sunday. Alox was in it, had been bragging about it all week, but Holland was still too young. So, as a small reward or consolation prize, his mother retrieved one of the bunnies for him to hold while she arranged flowers.

Holland had never held a bunny before. Never held anything so small and delicate and living. He remembered seeing one in person once at school -- a pristine white specimen named Snowball that was Alox’s treasured class pet. Snowball was a lot bigger than his grey -- full grown and fluffy with big ears and bigger teeth. Snowball had tried to bite his finger that one time, scaring him badly. This one hadn’t tried to bite him yet, and seemed content to sit in a rounded mound on his hand. This one also didn’t have a name, which made Holland all the more determined to give it one.

“If I’m good with the bunny, will mama let me take it home?” Holland asks, looking up at his brother. Alox was playing some imaginary version of hop-scotch, bouncing back and forth over the cracks in the sidewalk on one foot. 

“No. You’re too little for a pet.” Alox said bluntly. He had just turned nine and had gotten more than a little bossy for Holland’s liking. “If she let us take it home, it would be my bunny.”

“No, it would be ours!”

“Nope. Mine. I’m the oldest.”

Holland’s nose wrinkled and he stuck out his tongue. “That’s not fair.”

“Everything has to be fair with you.” Alox rolled his eyes, stopping dead in front of Holland. He bends down and pinches the tip of his brother’s tongue. “Nothing’s ever really fair, Holl. Sorry.”

Holland yanks away, nose curling even more. “Gross.”

“Don’t stick your tongue out then.”

Holland huffed and turned back to the bunny. “But if it was your bunny, what would you name them?”

Alox blinked. “A name?”

“Yeah,” Holland said. He carefully changes his hands to lift the bunny up for Alox to take a better look. “They need a name. They don’t have one.”

“Why do they need a name, Holl?” Alox sighed. He dropped onto the steps next to Holland, stretching his legs out straight into the middle of the narrow sidewalk.

“Because I want them to have a name,” Holland insisted. He pulled the bunny back to nuzzle his nose into the soft fur of its neck. “And maybe if we give it a name, mama will let us take it home.”

“I don’t think she will, Holl.”

“But what if she does?”

“Just don’t get your hopes up okay?”

“Okay.”

Alox nodded and reached out, scratching a nail under the bunny’s chin and behind its ears. Holland watched his brother carefully, worried he might try to snatch the creature away. As far as Holland was concerned, the bunny was as good as his and Alox couldn’t take that away.

“How about… Biscuit?” Alox asked, head tilted.

“But…” Holland squints at his brother, thoroughly confused. “It’s a grey bunny.”

Alox rolled his eyes. “You don’t always have to name something because of the color it is, dummy. C’mon, what would you pick then?”

Holland thought for a minute. “Cloudy.”

“Cloudy?” Alox’s eyebrows raised. “Cloudy the bunny?”

“Yep.”

“Oh… That’s not bad.”

“You like it?” Holland brightened.

“I don’t  _ hate it _ .” Alox corrected. “You really like that thing, don’t you?”

“Mhmm.” Holland nodded, cuddling the newly-named Cloudy close.

“Hmm… then maybe I can convince mama to let us have a pet. No promises though.” Alox ran gentle fingers over the bunny’s little paws. “Once the pageant is over, they have to go somewhere right?”


	11. Light (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the sickfic started in chapter 9 ("Illness"). Modern AU featuring a long conversation between Holland Vosijk and Kell Maresh. Involves quite a bit of the story-building and head-canoning I've done for this version of Holland, so if you have questions you can see The Brightener fic I have in my archives, leave a comment here, or pop on over to tumblr and send me an ask -- I'm @orchidscript. I would be happy to answer anything you've got, so don't be shy.
> 
> CW: discussions of family deaths, sickfic, and Kell gets his crush squished more than a little bit. Just some good old fashioned angst here, y'all. Have fun!

His fever had broken sometime in the middle of the night. Talya and Kell had forced him upright when the dream had frightened him awake. He hadn’t fought them as they moved him into the bathroom, sitting him in the cold spray of the shower for long minutes; until his clothes were soaked through and water ran in his eyes. Holland had sat in the spray, staring blankly at the open door to his bedroom, wondering if this was how Alox had felt when he drowned.

Talya had given him two pills and a glass of water after she shut off the water, kneeling by the tub’s edge to make sure he took the things. She didn’t push the water just yet, but promised to be back with whatever he wanted, whatever he thought he could keep down. He had almost called after her when she left, suddenly frightened she would disappear too, but she quickly returned with a stack of dry clothes, a warm towel, and a bleary-eyed Kell Maresh.

Kell had been the one to redress him -- because Talya was the only one of the two who knew where anything was in the apartment. Holland was too delirious to feel a shred of the embarrassment he might have, but he was still aware of Kell’s fumbled apologies and nervous rambling. 

Now, Holland lay flat on his back in bed, wide awake and worse for it. His temples squeezed and his throat was raw. Every joint ached and his stomach still felt too hollow. But the fever had broken, he hadn’t sweat through his shirt or thrown off the blanket resting over him. He had been like that for hours, staring out the window as the darkest part of the morning yielded to greys and finally pale pinks and purple. Talya was fast asleep on the couch, where she had been since Kell had bullied her into getting rest. 

Kell was seated in Holland’s desk chair, slouched down and his feet propped on the pull of one of his desk drawers. He had a book in his hands -- Holland’s carefully annotated copy of  _ The Two Towers _ , to be precise. Holland had seen him come in with the book at four that morning but didn’t have the energy to complain.

Instead, he watched the center of his window. A flat, four-point star made of golden glass hung from the lock. It was a Christmas gift, an ornament, sent from the church ladies back home. He very rarely made the drive home now that he had his own place and no place in Charleston, but he still called, still sent letters. They still sent him gifts from time to time.

Clear, cold morning light shone through the colored glass, scattering smaller diamonds across his blanket and the floor. Holland followed them with his eyes, watching them move and twist as the light outside the window changed.

“Holland?” Kell’s voice sounded softly in the room for the first time in hours.

“Hm?” Holland hummed, keeping his eyes exactly where they were.

“Can I ask…” his voice trailed off for a moment, then revived. “Why do you have all the saints on your desk?”

“The saints?” Holland had thought he was going to ask about blankets or food, maybe if he wanted any more tea to drink. Not his desk and it’s very limited decoration. “Oh, the icons. They were gifts. From home.”

Kell made a noise. Holland could hear him shift in his chair, hear his socked “You’re, um, religious then?”

“Not remotely.”

“Then why—?”

“Because they were gifts from people back home. Each one reminds me of them.” Holland sighed heavily. “Besides... my parents kept them in the house.”

“It reminds you of them?”

“Yes. And, if it’s all true, perhaps keeping them shows they aren’t forgotten.” Holland rolled his head to the side on his pillow. He stretches an arm out to point, roughly, to each one. He knew what each was without having to see them. “The Lady of Kazan, Christ Pantocrator, and St. Nicholas of Myra are all from Marya, a family friend. The last one was my mother’s favorite, the Softener of Evil Hearts.”

“That’s quite a title.” Kell slid his feet to the floor and leaned forward to take a better look. 

“It is…”

Holland watches closely as Kell inspected the small images -- laminated cards and gilded paintings both -- one by one without touching. Holland was worried that he might pick them up, mess up the arrangement. It was one of the few things Holland was picky about and entirely because it was related to his parents, the family he imagined but no longer had. He had very little left of them, far less that he could physically touch and hold -- his father’s creased leather workbooks, his mother’s  _ pavlovo posad _ shawl, a few bent and torn photographs, the icons.

The crystalline glass star.

Holland turns his head back to look at it, to look through it. The golden light, the distorted twist of the outside world through the glass. Marya had pressed it into his hand the last time he had been home, as he was throwing things into the borrowed car after Thanksgiving his freshman year. She had said it was an early Christmas present, an ornament to hang from a tree he didn’t have the heart to tell her he wouldn’t get. She told him to hand it from his mirror as he drove, just keep it close by just in case. The church ladies -- the women who had taken care of him since high school without question, simply because they had known his mother, had known him when he was a child -- had prayed over it in the hopes it would keep him safe.

“Holland, you--.”

“You know they’re all dead, right?” Holland asks, more to the glass star than to the redhead on the other side of the small room.

Kell made a noise. The back legs of the chair re-connected with the carpet. “Yes, kind of. Talya explained a little, after last night.”

“But you didn’t know before?”

“No.”

“Hm, strange,” Holland hummed. “I just assume anyone can see it on me. I suppose not…”

“Holland, I hate to break it to you, but no one can see anything on you.” Kell stood and slid the desk chair closer to the bed. When Holland rolled his head to look at the younger man, he was surprised to see him smiling. “You’re a stone. You know that right?”

Holland took a breath. “Good. That’s what I’d prefer.”

“Honestly, I envy your self-control,” Kell sighed. “I’m too much of an open book, I give too much away. My parents have told me more than once that I need to rein it in, but I haven’t figured out exactly how yet.”

“Talya said you were adopted.” Holland waited for Kell’s confusion to manifest in a nod. “She recognized your last name when I said you were one of my students. Your family is a big deal around here, I guess.”

“They are, I’m not.” Kell shrugged. “People tend to forget I’m there, which is actually kind of ideal. Like, if I had to pick…”

Holland hummed. “Did you know your real parents? Birth parents, I mean.”

“No. Didn’t know them, don’t remember them at all.”

“Then we’re not so different, I guess,” Holland muses. He feels his chest hollow out and he shifts to lay flat on his back. Staring at the ceiling to avoid looking Kell in the eye. Staring at the ceiling to track the faint dots of light from the golden star. They had gotten up there too.

“What do you mean?... Holland?”

Holland felt his tongue loosen, his jaw relax. Not his choice exactly, but his brain insisting on taking over where his self-preservation would have shut him up. Holland was tired, his body aching and uncomfortable. The quiet of his bedroom had weight to it. It seemed to settle flat on top of him, pressing down on his chest and stomach, forcing things he would rather have left unspoken up his throat and past his lips.

“My mother kept a laminated card of that icon in her purse. There are lots of versions of Mary in icons, but she always liked that one. She thought it was hopeful, liked the... I don't know, the redemption in it. I don’t know when she started doing it, but I remember her taking it out at church every week to get it blessed again. Now that I’m older, I know that’s not exactly how icons work but no one seemed to mind her doing it, and her family was something different from my dad’s.” Holland counted the dots on the ceiling -- 14 exactly -- then closed his eyes. “She had that card in her purse the day she went missing. I know she did. It was a Saturday, so it would have been. They found her purse when they searched the riverbank, but it was basically empty.”

“Was the card in it? Is that how you… you knew?”

“No. She was a nurse at the elementary school and her staff I.D. was stuck in the mud nearby,” Holland exhaled. “No, I asked for the card and Marya gave it to me. Because no one ever found my mother’s… Because no one ever found my mother.”

Kell had gone quiet. Holland couldn’t tell if it was out of respect or surprise; if he was waiting for Holland to keep talking or if the redhead simply didn’t know what else to say. If he opened his eyes, Holland would have known exactly what side of the line Kell had landed on but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He truly, and not that deep down, didn’t want to know.

“My mother went missing when I was eight. My dad was dead two years later. A year after that, my older brother just drove away and left me in the house, and the year after that he turned up drowned. That’s who I saw last night, by the way. I thought I was at home and he was taking care of me, talking to me. Then he turned into… well, never mind.” Holland cleared his throat. “I had to identify his body and I haven’t thought about it in years. The fever had other ideas, I guess.”

“I guess,” Kell murmured, voice sort of vacant. Empty. 

Surprised and not sure what to say, then.

“Marya took care of me after, when I let her. I liked being alone through high school and I probably would still be now if Talya hadn’t decided that was unacceptable… She’s my best friend here. She knows all of the stuff I’m telling you now. She makes me talk about it, even when I’d rather not, which is most of the time.”

“You trust her.”

“I love her.”

“Oh, right.”

Holland opened his eyes and looked back to Kell. “You were thinking that me telling you all this makes you special, weren’t you? That it means I trust you and you’re important to me.”

Kell’s pale skin somehow went even paler. He looked ill himself, unsteady and meek. “Y-Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not.” Holland says gently. “I’m telling you because you’re here. Because for some reason, I want to talk about it all right now, and you’re the closest thing I have to an audience. If I had half a brain right now, I would have had your swear to keep your mouth shut before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think to. And I’m used to being alone.” Holland took a shallow breath. “And because you’re here. And you helped Talya all night... And because you don’t have your family anymore either.”

Kell blinked, eyebrows creasing together. He didn’t say anything, just watched and waited. Careful, considerate, perhaps over-thinking the moment. Like he did at all their tutoring appointments.

“We’re not so different. As much as I hate to admit it, risk getting your hopes up or something. But we aren’t.” Holland cleared his throat softly. “I think I appreciate the fact that we have a kinship more than the idea of us having a friendship.”

Kell still only stared.

“Am I making myself clear, Kell?” Holland asked gently. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes. Perfectly,” Kell said weakly. 

He swallows tightly, then leans back in the chair. Holland expects him to make some excuse to wake Talya and leave. But Kell stays, clearly committed to what he had been asked to do. Perhaps wedded to the notion that this might, one day, make him like Talya. The blue eyes flickered to his shoes, his hands, the floor, and then finally back up to Holland. Clear, even blue. Still and patient, all the earlier signs of disappointment and discomfort vanished. 

Buried, maybe.

“A kinship then,” Kell repeated. “I don’t hate that idea.”

Holland managed a thin smile. His eyes were beginning to hurt again, a headache building in the back of his skull. “Good.”

“Can I ask something?”

Holland nodded.

“What else do you keep of them? Like, the non… the things people can’t just guess at.” Kell fumbles through the question, picking at the skin by his nails. “Like. I don’t remember them, but I guess my parents were tall, because I am. That maybe they gave me my name. They’re all guesses, but they still feel like something.”

“You’re asking…” Holland paused. “I don’t really know what you’re asking, Kell.”

The redhead flushed, giving him a sheepish smile. “I don’t really know what I’m asking either.”

“You just want me to keep talking to you, is that it?”

“Seems like…”

Holland inhaled and nodded. “Alright then… Why don’t you make us some coffee and we will? If Talya wakes up and wants to help, tell her I said no. I want her to rest.”

“Sure. I’ll be. I’ll be right back.” Kell had brightened, a light returning to his face as he left the bedroom. Holland watched him leave, sliding the tip of his tongue against the backs of his teeth, wondering if he would ever feel that lightness in his own skin. 

He shifted his gaze back to Marya’s star and put the idea out of his mind.


	12. Meet-Cute (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the all the hits and all the kudos!! Y'all are the best!  
> 1940s AU Holland Vosijk, Nasi, and a tipsy, flirtatious Kell Maresh. This is a pretty long chapter and this AU is going in a very different direction from the Modern AU, so leave everything that happened in the last chapter at the door.
> 
> CW: discussions of violence, implied violence, alcohol, drunkenness, brief discussion of injuries, Nasi insults Kell for a hot minute.

“Okay, pencil-pusher,” Nasi started, tongue rolling the lime candy around her mouth as she gazed imperiously up at the redheaded man. “What d’you wanna know?”

Kell’s eyebrows furrowed together, regarding her with surprise and vague annoyance. “What did you just call me?”

The sweet clicked against her molars. “You heard me. Now, answer the question. What do you want to know?”

Kell stood up straighter, inhaling sharply while pinching the bridge of his nose. He tilted his head back, eyes closed. “You’re taking a lead from a ten year old. This is where your career has gone, Maresh. Taking leads from a fourth grader…”

“Fifth grader!” Nasi protested. “I may be ten but I’m not stupid, or deaf. I can  _ hear you _ , and you know I’m your best shot at brown-nosing your way into Sal’s good graces.”

“Fine,” Kell sighed, looking down at her. He shook his head, defeated. “Fine, you’re… You’re right, kid. I need to know – not want,  _ need _ – where to find someone who can tell me about this–.” 

With no flourish, Kell produced a small white rook from his pocket. One point was chipped off and a hairline crack ran down the column of it. Nasi took a step forward, hesitantly lifting the chess piece and weighing it in her hand. She knew exactly who had sent it and what for. She knew exactly where to find the messengers who might have dropped the thing off to begin with. Holland had gotten one just like it and, within the week, was gone.

She looked up at him. “When did you get this?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Where was it?”

“Just inside my door, dropped through the mail slot. I stepped on it.”

Nasi placed it back in his hand and nodded. She felt the lime candy finally crack through, splitting in two on her tongue. “You’re about to be in a whole new world of hurt, Maresh. That… that means you’ve been sticking your nose in the wrong places.”

“Does it really?” Kell smirked, amused by her dramatics.

“It does,” Nasi murmured. “Because that little rook belongs to the White Twins.”

“The White Twins? Never heard of ‘em.”

Nasi’s eyebrows knit together as she squinted up at him. “Never heard of them? How have you never heard of them? You’re sniffing around in their territory all the time. You’re in their territory right now.”

Kell smirked, then crouched down in front of her. He rolled the white rook between his fingers, humor and disbelief written all over his face. “You know what I think, Nasi?”

“What, paper boy?” Nasi crossed her arms and glared at him. She knew what was coming. It was all in the tone of his voice, the obvious humor in his face. She had seen it from her classmates, the teachers at school, sometimes a neighbor or the Good Humor driver. Kell Maresh didn’t believe her.

“I think you made ‘em up.” Kell arched an eyebrow, as if expecting her to confess immediately. “I think you made up the White Twins in that imaginative brain of yours and now you’re trying to use them to scare me.”

Nasi shook her head slowly, her upper lip curling at the insult. “I wish I had made them up, but I didn’t. They’re real. Ask anyone around here and they’ll tell you. Athos and Astrid Dane, they live uptown but they deal with bars and nightclubs. They own ‘em or they make the owners pay protection.”

Kell chuckled to himself and stood back up to his full height. He shoved the rook back into the pocket of his coat, then patted Nasi on the head. “Nice story, good names, but save it for your English class, kiddo. I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“Oh yes, you are,” Nasi glared up at him. “You’re exactly as dumb as you look. The White Twins are real and that chess piece means they want your head, and you’ll give it to them because you’re too dumb to take a real warning.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“I’m serious, paper boy! My dad got one a month ago and he went missing for four whole days before they dumped him back at our front door, half-conscious and bloody,” Nasi snarled, taking a brave step forward. “If you don’t believe me, go post up at White London tonight. See what you find out, see if you’re so damn smart then.”

With that, Nasi stomped her foot down on Kell’s shoe then turned on her heel and marched back into the grocery store. Let the stupid reporter figure it out on his own for once.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The redhead had been hovering all night.

Flitting back and forth at the edge of Holland’s vision as he sat at the bar in the White Rat lounge. He wasn’t a regular, that much was clear. The way he kept making eyes at Holland over his third vodka-soda made him doubly sure that the redhead had no clue who he was or what his position in the Danes’ business was. He probably didn’t know this was a Dane Twins establishment. Judging by the shine of his shoes, the man wasn’t from that part of the city or anywhere near to it.

Holland didn’t dislike the attention, but he wasn’t going to encourage it. He had three days worth of books to get through before he could leave for home and it was already well past eleven in the evening. Nasi would be up until he got home, faking sleep. She’d never admit to waiting up for him and Holland would never say anything to her about the habit.

The redhead was looking at him again. All smiles and warm blue eyes, clearly interested. Any other night of the week, Holland might have been interested himself. He took a small, steadying sip from his glass of whiskey and turned back to his work.

The numbers had to be exactly right, every time. The cash-flow reports that Astrid had insisted on added another two hours to his already long day. His ribs still ached from weeks earlier, right in the spot where the woman’s shoe left a large, dark bruise. Cuts littering his shoulders and back that, despite his best efforts, had not totally healed over yet. They stung in the bath, itched badly under his starched shirts. Holland could feel them as he sat at his corner table. He swallowed more whiskey to try ignoring the feeling. 

The numbers had to be perfect. 

Holland wouldn’t leave Nasi alone for that long again. She still looked surprised to see him out front of the elementary school at the end of the day, still looked relieved to see him sitting at the kitchen table with the morning paper and coffee. 

He couldn’t do that to her again.

The chair across from him slid out and a body dropped into it, a glass thunking down hard on the wood tabletop. Holland jumped, his pen sliding across the paper. It was the redhead, tipsy and grinning, a hot pink flush sitting high in his cheeks. Holland only stared, keeping his face still and empty.

“Evenin’,” the other man slurs lightly. “You drinkin’ alone?”

“Working, actually,” Holland answers in a clipped, cold tone. “If you mind, I do need to finish before the end of the hour.”

“Oh I don’t mind. I can wait, no problem,” he replies. He leaned forward, propping his cheek against one fist. “I’m Kell.”

“Holland. Pleasure to meet you,” Holland says, deadpan. He pulls the books and ledgers closer, pinching the bridge of his nose as he goes back to them. He hopes the redhead would stay silent, for just a few minutes. He wanted to get home to Nasi,  _ needed _ to get home to Nasi. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could. Maybe flirt for a few minutes. If only he could finish.

The numbers had to be correct.

A few hundred dollars a week to each of the five partners who ran White London, the White Rat, and the Silver Wood. Another fifty to the two who watched the backroom casinos. The collected tips and base pay for the cigarette girls, the showgirls, and bartenders. The coat and hat check got an extra look over since the last worker had been replaced -- a safe guard if anyone else was getting wise to skimming off the top. 

“Isn’t that a place?”

Holland glances up. “Excuse me?”

“Holland,” the other man clarifies. “That’s a place, right? Not a name.”

“I suppose not.” Holland blinks. “Glad to see you have a grasp of basic geography.”

Kell laughs, the pink in his cheeks darkening. His blue eyes shone dark with drink and something else. The barest shimmer of lust works its way across Holland’s skin. “I guess I’m glad I was right then. Sorry, I’m outta practice with this whole thing.”

“What ?” Holland raises an eyebrow, keenly aware of the strange tightness in his voice.

“Pick ups,” Kell shrugs. “Pulling. You know.”

“Oh. Is that what you were doing?” Holland exhales. Cross-checking that each of their customers had paid their dues this month, that the casino memberships had been paid in full, that Astrid and Athos’ personal expenses were accounted for as part of the expenditures. Making each line crystal clear, so that the Twins could take one look and feel no need to question him.

Everything present. Everything accounted for.

Then, the toe of a shoe ran up the inside of Holland’s calf.  Holland jumps again, a gasp escaping him. 

Kell just smiles and laughs again. “Are you out of practice too?”

“Not entirely, no.”

“Hmm, coulda had me fooled. Jumping like a teenager in a movie theater.”

Holland squints at him, trying to ignore the strange feeling building in his chest. “Aren’t you a teenager?”

“Nope, twenty-seven.” Kell swallows the last of his drink. He points to Holland’s still half-full whiskey glass. “Can I buy you another?”

“No, thank you.”

“Just as well. I should cut myself off.”

“Perhaps.”

Holland swallows tightly, his heart beating quicker in his chest. He couldn’t focus on the numbers anymore, he was too hot under the collar. Something warm and hot curled in his stomach. A feeling that had once been familiar, but now felt strange and nearly-sickening in his limbs. Light-headed, flustered. Things Holland would rather he never been seen as.  Kell was loose and obviously interested. His foot was still lingering, rubbing idle circles around Holland’s ankle through his trousers. The other man was going to be a sure thing if Holland would let him be. He knew the entirety of this club, inside and out, just as he knew all of the White Twins’ establishments. 

He took a steadying breath and leaned back in his chair. “If you let me finish my work, I can show you someplace quiet. Is that… amenable?”

Kell’s blue eyes lit up. “I think I can handle that.”

“I promise it will be worth your while,” Holland says in a low voice, leaning forward across the table. “A few minutes is all I ask.”

“Then I’ll give ya a few minutes, handsome.” Kell winks and stands, grabbing his empty glass. “Flag me down when you’re good.”Kell strides back to the bar, hand tucked into a pocket and looking very pleased with himself. 

Holland watches him go, staring a little more than he would have liked. The warm feeling growing and burning through his skin. His breathing had gone funny, throat tight and uncomfortable. He drops his pen and presses his fingers to his temples. He was being far too obvious. He had to get himself back under control. 

The numbers had to be correct.

Holland bit deeply into his lower lip, the moment of pain snapping some of his focus back into place. He picks up his pen and goes back to work. The food and alcohol budget was in order, as were the sales. Reimbursement for drivers and taxis. Holland took a breath and adjusted himself in his trousers. Curtain cleaning and laundering the table cloths. An extra twenty-five -- marked but under the table -- to the carpet cleaner to keep quiet about the blood. He downed the rest of his drink, hoping the alcohol would calm his dizzying feeling.

The numbers had to be correct. Everything accounted for.

It was far more arduous than it should have been, but Holland eventually completed the last of the numbers. He screwed the cap back on his pen, tucking it into his pocket. He packaged up the ledgers and took it to the back office for the Danes’ driver to pick up at closing. Exactly the way he had done it for years, the same way he had been shown how to on his first days.

He was gone for under five minutes, extra time built in for how Holland had dawdled in a sham attempt to still his nerves.

Only a scant few minutes.

When Holland stepped back into the bar, the tipsy redhead was being held up by the shirt collar, blood streaming out of his nose. A couple of the regular patrons, the bartender standing by and watching. Holland sighed, cursing under his breath as he walked over. There was no sense in rushing. Putting the room back in order wouldn’t take long.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Just here,” Holland murmurs, pulling the keys from his coat. 

The redhead leans heavy against his side, cradling his head in his hand. He was going to have a black eye or two, a bruised lip. The cut across his eyebrow was going to be irritating for a long while and the loosened tooth might have to be pulled. But Holland wasn’t going to tell him this. At least not yet.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t just stuffed the redhead in a taxi. Why he had chosen to bring him back to the apartment instead. Holland Vosijk wasn’t in the business of collecting strays or taking anyone home. This was wildly out of character, but he was well and truly committed now.

He got the door open, pushing it open wide. He winces as it connected with the wall -- he didn’t want to give Nasi a reason to get out of bed. “Just in here. If you sit. Here. I can see about your--.”

“Thank you,” Kell blurts out as he collapses onto the couch cushions. “This isn’t what you meant when you said finding some place quiet.”

“Not entirely, no,” Holland says quietly. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, closing the door and locking it completely. The warm, twisting feeling had returned to his gut, much to his annoyance. There was no way to act on that feeling, not with Nasi in the next room. He shook the feeling off, walking back towards the redhead. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I shouldn’t --.”

“I meant tea. Or coffee.”

“Oh,” Kell stares up at him, hand cradling his jaw. “Either, either is fine.”

“Tea, then. Then I help you… clean up. Yes?” 

Holland didn’t wait for an answer. He walked into the kitchen, filled and set the kettle on the stove. He lit the flame, staring at it for a few steadying breaths. Just tea, then a wet washcloth to clean the blood. Perhaps a pillow and blanket, if he wanted to stay the night on the couch. It was approaching midnight. Holland stopped himself as he reached for a teapot. There was no sense in hoping. Besides, he would still have to explain the other man’s presence to Nasi in the morning. She was perceptive for her age and Holland didn’t relish the idea of having to explain more than he was prepared to.

“What in the hell are  _ you _ doing in  _ my house _ ?”

“ _ Your _ house?”

Holland set the teapot on the counter, cursing under his breath. This day wasn’t going to let him off easy. Holland stepped away, turning back to the living room.

“Yes  _ my house _ . I live here! What are  _ you _ doing here, pencil-pusher?” Nasi stood in her night dress, hair braided and arms crossed. She was scowling at Kell, who was more or less returning the sentiment. 

“ _ Natasha _ ,” Holland begins, tone firm enough to make her jump. “ _ Chto eto? On gost. _ ”

Nasi gapes at him. “ _ You _ brought him home? Holland, how could you!”

“I do not appreciate that tone, Natasha. Explain yourself.” Holland glances over at Kell. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter, she’s quite… willful.”

“Hey!”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Kell snickers to himself, then realization dawns on his beaten features. “Wait.  _ Daughter _ ? She’s  _ your daughter _ ?”

“ _ Khristos, pomogi mne _ ,” Holland mutters into his palm. He would handle Kell in a moment. For now, he focuses on Nasi. “Explain to me, Natasha. What am I missing?”

Nasi squints at Holland, then huffs and points at Kell. “He’s the reporter I’ve been telling you about! The one that keeps misspelling my name. The one that didn’t believe me about the rook. That’s  _ him _ , Holland!”

Holland rubs his hands over his face. There was not enough time left in the day and Holland was already thoroughly exhausted. “Be that as it may, Natasha, he is a guest. In our home. I am going to get him tea and he is going to stay the night. I do not want to hear another word about it, am I understood.”

Nasi crosses her arms over her chest. She scowled at him. She glared at Kell, sticking her tongue out at him, before turning on her heel and marching towards the bathroom. “Have it your way.”

“Nasi--.”

“I’m just getting you the first aid kit!” Nasi calls back. When she returns with the small box in her hands, she walks right up to Holland and holds it up to him. She still looked angry, but all of it bottled in. “If he’s a guest then I’m helping. He’s an idiot and you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

Holland takes the box and sighs. “Thank you, Natasha. You should go to bed, it’s late.”

“I don’t have school tomorrow. And you two are being loud,” Nasi sniffs and wanders around him into the kitchen. “You tend to the idiot and I’ll make tea.”

“ _ Natasha-- _ .”

“I know it’s rude, I don’t care.” Nasi pulls a milk crate from the corner and climbed onto the counter to pull the tea from the top of the refrigerator. “It can be any ruder than him calling me Nancy all the time.”

Holland shakes his head, making the conscious decision to disregard the girl. He pulls a footstool in front of Kell and sits down, the box open on his lap. He fumbles with the contents to avoid eye contact. “My apologies.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kell says, pushing himself up. “But you didn’t answer me. Nasi is your daughter?”

“Yes, she is.”

“So where’s your wife?”

“Wife?” Holland pulls out an antiseptic cream and a few bandages. “No. I’ve never been married.”

“So… So I’m not intruding on anything?” Kell asked in a low voice, leaning closer to Holland. He makes a face and presses his hand to his side. 

Holland bites the tip of his tongue. “N-No. You aren’t.”

“Because, my offer was real,” Kell smiles softly. “Even if your kid hates me. She's a trip, but I like you. You’re handsome and I wouldn’t mind buying you a drink sometime.”

“Tea first, then perhaps you can,” Holland returns the smile.

There was a loud groan from the kitchen and the kettle squealed. “Kell, I swear, if you kiss my dad I’m giving your name to Murder Inc!”

Kell only laughs and kisses Holland on the cheek.


	13. Music (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short departure for today's prompt -- 1940s AU Rhy and Alucard, having a turn around the dance floor at the White London Club. This one is quite short, especially when compared to yesterdays installment. Perhaps I'll come back and add length to it, but for now it isn't coming to me and I apologize if you were expecting a longer update.
> 
> CW: alcohol and a party. Other than that, pretty simple fluff.
> 
> Enjoy!

Mother would have had a fit if she knew where he was.

This far downtown? 

This left turn off the beaten path? 

This caliber of patrons and performers? 

No. No. And  _ no _ . 

Emira Maresh would hardly have entertained the idea of her youngest and most precious son cavorting with the likes of showgirls and gamblers. The very suggestion would likely send her into a fainting spell, render her immovable with the vapors.

Which was exactly  _ why _ Rhy needed to be here.

Dressed in his fourth-best suit, posted up at the corner of the bar with Alucard, a very strong drink in his hand, Rhy Maresh felt settled. In the middle of a whirlpool, surrounded by lights, music, laughter, dazzle. Nothing made his blood sing like a well-tuned swing band and, tonight, his pulse simmered and jumped. If it wasn’t so ill-advised by Alucard, Rhy would have closed his eyes, slumped down in his chair, and let the atmosphere send him into a trance.

The White London Club was the newest, flashiest establishment in the city. No expense had been spared in it’s creation. The owners, it seemed, would accept nothing less than a reputation for being perfectly scandalous, perfectly extravagant. A veritable riot of color, skin, and booze. 

If it had been 1924 instead of 1949, the place would have been raided in an instant.

Kell had tipped him off to the club’s very existence, something that had shocked Alucard when Rhy proposed a fresh spot for their dates. Seeing it for himself, Rhy was similarly shocked and awed. Perhaps a little bit proud. His brother was capable of the occasional wild streak, but had settled into adulthood a little too easily. In the last seven years, Kell had turned quieter. More and more bound to the family library. More and more invested in that newspaper that had hired him. 

Nowadays, Rhy couldn’t imagine his older brother darkening the door of a place like White London without a very good reason. Rhy couldn’t think of a reason beyond that paper. Chasing a story, an interview, something.

Kell hadn’t said how he knew of White London, didn’t give the barest hint of who or what had led him to that spot. Rhy had decided he would press him later. Push for more details, more secrets, perhaps another nightlife spot to try out. But, for now, he would enjoy his drink and the music. For now, Rhy would get happily carried away.

“Hey,” Alucard whispered, nudging Rhy’s cheek with his nose. “Let’s dance.”

“What? Here?” Rhy raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Alucard nodded and pointed over his shoulder at the dance floor. “Take a look for yourself.”

Rhy swallowed a mouthful of his drink and turned in his chair. He lounged, elbows propped against the bar top, and watched the dance floor. After a few minutes of observing the barely-contained chaos, he spotted a few couples like them. In fact, there were quite a few in fact, more than Rhy had seen in outside the usual invitation only, under the rug, have to know-someone-who-knows-someone watering club. He smiled to himself, swirling the liquor in his glass. 

“I wouldn’t have figured this a place for people like us,” He said quietly, glancing sidelong at Alucard with a come-hither smile. “I’d love to dance.”

Alucard’s dark blue eyes sparkled. He dropped his own glass on the bar and stepped back, holding his hand out to Rhy. “After you.”

Rhy laughed and took Alucard’s hand. He slid off his chair and walked towards the dance floor -- a dance in and of itself for the amount of people and tables to weave through. Dark carpets and candlelit tables gave way to hardwood and stage lights. Rhy let Alucard pull him deeper into the crush of people, twisting and turning around pair after pair. When they were far enough in, Alucard stopped and yanked Rhy close to him by the lapels of his shirt.

“Watch it!” Rhy teased, swatting his hands away. “I just had this pressed.”

“And you’re going to have to have it pressed again, honey,” Alucard grinned. “Can’t stay pristine in a place like this.”

He took one of Rhy’s hands in his, his free hand coming to rest at the small of his back. They were close together, but the crowd jostling them pushed them closer still.


	14. Metamorphosis (Cyberpunk AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special request for @muffinworry -- a cyberpunk AU. I have never written cyberpunk and science fiction is not my writer’s forte, but I tried and it took me a long time to write. So, I hope it’s okay because no guarantees this could ever happen again. Cyberpunk AU version of Rhy’s “death” in book 1. Featuring Kell and Lila as well. 
> 
> CW: blood, death, tech-based body modifications. Have fun, stay safe.

Kell lunges as his brother crumples to the floor. 

His hands slip on blood slicking the hilt of the knife now buried in Rhy’s skin. The sound of Lila somewhere behind him is dulled by Rhy’s breathing. Staccato and shallow. Choked-off, wet, and sickening. Rhy’s shirt quickly soaked through and then some, the fabric leaking deep red onto the floor around them. Soaking into the fabric of Kell’s pants, coating the palms of his hands as he worked, trying to stop the bleeding. Rhy’s breathing was coming faster and harsher, not much air getting in and what did not sustain him. His chest jerked underneath his palms as he pressed down on the wound.

His brother was dying. He would die in Kell’s hands.

Kell had saved him once, and he would do it again. He knew he could do it again. 

“Kell.” Lila’s voice was soft and close. 

He didn’t turn to look at her. He reaches blindly for her hands and places them firmly over the wound over his brother’s heart, the blood on his palms staining her wrists a rusted red. He wipes the blood away on his pants, then presses his palms together.

“Kell,” she repeats, more insistent.

“Stop.” He takes a deep breath, concentrating on the electricity in his limbs. Feeling it course across nerves and bones, weaving through sinew and muscle where the wires had been put in years and years before. Pooling in the cups of his palms and lighting up his nails. He replaces them flat on his brother’s chest, bowing his head, and breathing to life the words that would trigger a command in his brain. “ _As_ _Hasari_.”

His hands glow bright again, that brightness permeating through Rhy’s skin. Filtering through his limbs, neck, and face. All too quickly, the light fades and Rhy’s body shudders again. 

“I-, I’m sorry,” Rhy whispers, voice cracked and feeble.

“Shut up, Rhy,” Kell orders. He bows his head to try the healing again, but Lila grabs him. He glares at her. “I’m not leaving him.”

“We have to go.”

“He’ll die.”

“Kell-.”

“No!” He yanks his hands away, breathing hard. He pushes his hands down over Rhy’s wound. It was still bleeding. There was so much blood, still so much blood. “I won’t leave him.”

“Then take him with us,” Lila says simply. “We need to go.”

Kell lets out a breath, still staring at Lila. The hanger-on he let come with him, despite his better instincts. He knew better, but he still let her come. And now he was depending on her. “Fine. We’ll take him.”

“Where?”

“M’sorry, Kell…” Rhy murmurs. “M’s-sor…”

“ _ Rhy _ ,” Kell hisses, immediately regretting it. He didn’t want his brother to think he was angry with him in his final moments. “Just stay with me, Rhy. Stay with me.”

“Nice voice… such’a nice voice…”

Lila snaps her fingers loudly. “Kell. Where?”

“Through the wall. Back corner, there--.” He points with one hand. “There’s a door, it’ll take us to the Sanctuary. He’ll have a better chance there.”

Lila nods and shifts, lifting Rhy from under the shoulders. Kell takes his brother by the legs and they pull him to the door, leaving a wide wet trail of blood drying on the floor for someone to discover later. Kell presses a bloody finger to the wall, marking out the correct fractal pattern to send them to the sanctuary. The blood isn’t his but the wall accepts it anyway. The door is narrow and Lila helps him haul Rhy upright enough to pull him through the narrow passage.

It was awkward, but they made it into the smaller room attached to the Sanctuary in one piece.

Rhy coughs weakly as they lay him down on the bed, blood coating his lips. His eyes, normally a bright glittering bronze, were hazy and dull. He couldn’t make sound anymore, but his lips were moving with words Kell couldn’t -- and perhaps didn’t want to hear. Instead, he leaves Lila to keep pressure and darts about the small room, pulling cords and fixtures out of the wall.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Lila calls, unmoving from her spot next to the prince.

“Healing him.”

“Kell, it’s too late!”

“No it isn’t! I just needs time!” Kell shouts and spins. “I just need time, Lila!”

“Kell!” Lila shouts. “It’s over!”

“He’s not dead!” Kell fires back, rushing to the bed and dropping down hard next to his brother. “He’s not dead! He can’t be, he can’t, I can’t--.”

His voice cuts off when his hand feels the chill in Rhy’s skin. He freezes, just long enough to register his brother is no longer breathing. It should have stopped him. Should have knocked him backwards with the sadness, the loss. 

It doesn’t. 

Kell only works faster.

Carefully, he turns Rhy’s arm over, revealing the tender underside. He digs through his blood-soaked pockets, extracting his small silver blade and the fractured black memory board. He rolls up his sleeve to reveal a small port in the crook of his elbow, connecting one end of a wire to himself, the other end to the black piece. He can hear  _ Vitari _ ’s voice the moment the circuit is made, does his best to stuff down the insidious hunger of the programming as he works on Rhy.

He presses the blade to Rhy’s skin, hating how easily it yields. His fingers shake as he slides hardware into place, quickly building a bastardized version of the technology inside his own skin. 

“Kell?”

“Shut up, Lila."

“Kell, please. Let him go.”

“No.”

“He’s gone.”

Kell pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.  _ Vitari _ clasped in one hand, his brother’s limp fingers in his other.  _ Save him _ , he begs the corrupted program in the black memory board.  _ Make my life his and his mine. Bind it to mine. Bring him back. _

_ Say the words, antari _ .

“ _ As hasari _ ,” Kell breathes. He feels Vitari, strong and hungry, rip through his body and Rhy’s. His vision turns to static as he feels his very insides fray. The programming and wiring built into his skin and bones lighting on a fire in a way he had never felt before. Tearing itself apart, burning from the inside out, overheating as the Black London program had its way.

And then it stops.

The room goes coldly silent. Sterile and vacuous. Kell slumps forward onto his brother’s chest, still clinging to the black board. He feels Lila’s eyes on him, knows the air is still in her lungs the way it is in his.

Underneath him, Rhy takes in a single, shuddering breath.

Kell closes his eyes as Rhy’s heart begins beating. A half-step behind his, hesitant, barely there.

But it beats.


	15. Coffee Shop (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with 2 chapters today! Apologies for falling a day behind, things turned unexpectedly busy, but here's hoping we're back on track until the end now :) For today we have 1940s AU Holland and Kell, having a conversation over coffee the morning after their meeting. (See chapter 12 for that content.) Enjoy!
> 
> CW: referenced consensual sex (ala the night before), vague discussions of violence and death (nothing graphic and all revolve around Holland's experiences with the Danes).

Despite the early hour -- or maybe because of it, Kell couldn’t tell -- the corner diner was already busy. People from the neighborhood coming in and out, turning the stationary door into a revolving one, grabbing coffee and sometimes something to eat. In long enough for the coffee and to pay, then back out the door and onto the sidewalk. Most of them seemed headed to work, but plenty were rolling off for the night. The telltale sign was their dress, the variation in exhaustion, how wrinkled their coat collars or ties were.

Kell had the feeling his companion would have been among them if it weren’t for him staying the night. He and Holland Vosijk sat at their small table, seemed to be frozen still compared to the voices and bodies around them. And yet, with all the patrons greeting the dark-haired man across from him, Kell had the distinct feeling that they were at the very center of it all. 

The slowly rotating eye of a hurricane. 

Friendly greetings too, nothing stilted as if they had to or felt obligated. Genuine, neighborly. Some even asked after the well-being of the little girl they had left sleeping at home. With every “hello”, Holland would look up, smile faintly, and return sentiments in kind. Not so much of the stone he seemed to be.

It felt odd sitting there with him, idly sipping coffee as if considering a business deal or about to start some sort of interview. Kell felt the urge to reach for his pen and pocket notebook, to lay them out on the table and start scribbling something -- if for no other reason than to take his eyes off Holland Vosijk’s hands. To keep the knowledge of what they felt like running over his skin, under his shirt and pants, pressing him to the kitchen counter and wrapped around him.

Kell felt his cheeks flame red and tucked his chin, tried hiding it behind his coffee cup. The color only deepened as Holland cleared his throat, fixing his deep green eyes on him. Half memories of what that voice had sounded like low in his ear, how hot his breath had been on his neck, how that green looked hazy with lust.

“Thank you for agreeing to come here with me,” he began in his clipped, precise tone. Very formal, rigid. The note of someone who was most comfortable in another voice.

“It’s not trouble. Not as if I have much else to do,” Kell replied. He sounded hoarse, embarrassingly so. He swallowed more coffee in the hopes of clearing it away, motioning for the other man to keep talking.

“Yes, well, I suppose we should talk after last night,” Holland continued. He shifted in his seat, running the pad of his finger over the lip of the coffee saucer. His face held no sign of what he intended to talk about. “Last night, Nasi said something that I did not think to ask about until this morning. Considering she does not entirely know what I do, I decided we should talk here.”

Kell swallowed tightly and nodded.

Holland took a breath and leaned forward onto his forearms, hands clasped together between them. “How long have you had the chess piece?”

Kell blinks. The conversation was not going where he had expected. “Oh, you mean the ro--.”

Holland shakes his head. “Careful. Use the same words I do, yes?”

“Yes,” Kell breathes. “Only a few days. Not long.”

“And where did you receive it?”

“Through my mail slot.” Kell replaced his cup on the saucer. “You know what it means then, who it came from?”

“I do,” Holland watches him. “I am surprised you do not. Nasi said she told you what it was herself.”

Kell pursed his lips. “I um… I thought she was just trying to scare me. See, I run into her often enough and she’s very helpful with the neighborhood, but... Well, she doesn’t exactly  _ like _ me.”

“Trust me. I gathered as much,” Holland allowed for a soft smile, then his expression sobered. “Where is the piece now?”

“In my pocket. Why--?”

“Because.” Holland raised a hand, stopping the redhead as he reached for his inside coat pocket. The man lowers his hand to lay flat on the table top, casting his eyes quickly about the diner. He turns back to Kell, just as serious as before. “Because I am in a position to tell you what you might want to know in that regard.”

“And how’s that?” Kell feels himself slip seamlessly into his reporter’s role. He reclines in his chair, keeping his eyes on Holland’s face. Feeling perhaps a little too brave, he sets his foot close to Hollands. So close that their legs brush. Kell smiles as the flicker of surprise in those dark green eyes. 

“I work for them,” Holland answers simply, composure in tact. “I have for five years. They paid for our passage from Europe. What you saw last night was, my work? That was their finances.”

“And who are  _ they _ , exactly?” Kell asks.

Holland’s brows crease together. Confusion doesn’t look right on the man’s face. He clears his throat again, voice dropping to near a whisper, floating just under the din of the restaurant. “Are you to tell me you have been spending time here but do not know of the White Twins?”

“Should I know them?”

“You were in their club last night.”

“I thought they were made up.” Kell shrugs.

A dark eyebrow raises. Holland’s gaze inspects him, and Kell has never felt more cut open or on display. “You thought Natasha made them up, you mean.”

Kell coughs into his hand and looks down into his cup. “P-Perhaps…”

“They are very real. I assure you, Kell.” Holland pauses to flag down a waitress for more coffee for both of them. He also asks for something Kell doesn’t recognize, a word that lands meaningless on his ears. “They are very real and very dangerous. I should know. I received one of those chess pieces myself a month ago. Consider yourself under threat.”

“Oh,” Kell managed as his blood turned to ice in his veins. Fear crept up his spine and he clutched his coffee cup tighter.

“Why would they have reason to send you that, Kell?” Holland continues.

“I don’t know… I’m guessing they think I’m poking into their business, and maybe I am but I didn’t know I was…” His voice trails off. He chews his bottom lip for a moment, letting the waitress return to fill their cups and leave a cloth-covered plate on the table. Letting Holland thank her in another language, one that falls more fluidly from his lips. It sets Kell’s heart pounding a little, something he kicks himself for. Now was not the time, not anymore. “What did they… why did you get one? You work for them.”

“I said I manage their finances,” Holland supplied in an easy, exact tone. “They believed I was stealing or at least allowing other employees to do so.”

“Were you?”

“No. Theft is not my strong suit. That might surprise you considering you know Nasi.” Holland smiles to himself, taking a long drink of coffee. He pulls away the napkin covering the plate, revealing what Kell can only place as English muffins but knows that’s wrong. Holland picks one and lays it next to his coffee, then nods towards the plate. “Have one, if you like.”

“What are they?” Kell asks, wincing internally as how stupid he sounds. 

Holland only smiles. “ _ Syrniki _ . Like eh… Well, not like anything really. Dumplings, maybe, but sweet. I grew up with them but cannot make them.”

“But they do here?”

“Yes, on weekends only. For those of us who know.”

Kell nods, taking one if only to be polite. His stomach was still flipping from the revelation of the White Twins and that the danger he had so readily laughed off was true. “So, you’re… what? Polish?”

Holland chuckles, shaking his head. “No, Russian.”

“Oh, apologies.” Kell flushed scarlet again. “Where in Russia are you and Nasi from?”

“Nasi is not, just me.” Holland lets out a slow breath. “And where I am from does not matter any more. The place is no longer there.”

“The war?”

“No, the revolution.”

“But, Nasi is your daughter,” Kell thinks out loud. “Forgive me, but how can she be your daughter and not Russian too?”

Holland takes a bite of the dumpling, closing his eyes for a moment as he did. Something sad, maybe more lonely, written over his features. He opens his eyes after he swallows, shaking his head. “Nasi is French. I was in Paris during the war. When I left, I took her with me. She is my daughter on paper only, Kell, but I care for her as if she were my own blood.”

“That explains her calling you by your name…” Kell mumbles to himself. “But… never mind. You’re probably sick of my questions, I’ll stop.”

“Not at all,” Holland says gently. “But I should ask you some in return. How a conversation should properly go.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Your last name, are you related to the bankers by the same name? The ones uptown?”

Kell sighs and nods. “Yes, my parents. Adopted parents, actually, so I won’t be inheriting anything, my brother will.”

“Is that why you are a reporter? Because of your…” Holland gestures with his hand.

Kell assumes the word just didn’t come to him fast enough and nods again. “Right. That was my choice and they’re indulging me for now. But, if my brother ever needed me business-wise, I’d hang it up.”

“Why?” Holland squints at him. “This is your choice, yes?”

“Yes, but I still would,” Kell sighs. “He’s the only family I have, so… I don’t think he ever will. He’s been brought up knowing exactly in our dad’s shadow. When he takes over, he’ll probably be better than our parents ever were. But don’t tell or people will try to buy us all out now.”

“You have my word. I will take it to my grave.”

“See I don’t know if you’re teasing or not, you’re so serious.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I am not.”

Kell laughs, not meaning to but not able to help it. He’s able to stifle it before anyone notices -- well, anyone other than Holland, who is again watching him. This time with a nerve- rattling mixture of affection and heat. “Sorry, not-. This isn’t where I thought I’d be this morning.”

“No?” Holland raises an eyebrow. “Neither did I.”

“I’m glad for it though,” Kell says quietly. “I, um... I hate to pry, but prying is half my job description so--.”

“Ask the question.”

“Yes, right, so,” Kell cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “So you got one too. And, and then what happened?”

Holland’s features sober again. “You want to know what will happen to you?”

“Yes,” Kell nods. “If you don’t mind. I want to be…”

“Prepared?”

“Yes. That.”

“I cannot prepare you,” Holland sighs. “The Danes -- that is their name by the way. Athos and Astrid Dane. They are particular about each punishment. When you receive it, you know it is meant only for you. They took me for days, kept me without sleep the whole time. I was given a beating, but she was comparatively gentle. It was a warning, not a death sentence. You? I cannot tell you what they will do to you.”

“No?” Kell squeaks. “Sorry I asked then.” 

He props his cheek against a fist and shoves the dumpling thing into his mouth, just to keep himself quiet for a few minutes. He’s surprised to find it sweet, filled with something creamy and vanilla flavored. He blinks, staring at nothing in particular as he chews and swallows, then debates taking another. 

Holland pushes the plate towards him. “I imagine it may be similar to mine. A warning. You did not know who they were or what you were getting yourself into. This may simply be an introduction, a warning. Them making their boundaries clear to you.”

“You think?”

“It is a guess. Now, if you get another one, well… _ Vso v rukakh bozh'ikh. _ ” Holland shrugs and drinks more coffee.

Kell picks up another dumpling. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, if you get a second chess piece, I sincerely hope you know a good priest .” 

Kell feels ill, dropping the dumpling onto his saucer as his heart beats faster. He chews his lip, drums his fingers on the table top, and tries to force the feeling away. It doesn’t abate, only growing with every second until he is sure he can hear terror, not blood, pounding in his ears. 

A warm hand comes to rest on top of his drumming fingers and Kell nearly jumps out of his seat. His head jerks up to see Holland, that same gentle affection in his face. 

“And I sincerely hope that does not happen.” He whispers.

“Why, why not?” Kell asks weakly.

“It would be a shame is all,” Holland finishes. He leans away, but the hand stays put. Kell lets it, curling his own fingers into something like holding. In the crowded diner, it feels dangerous, reckless, but no more than what they were just speaking about. 

The pair go still, the eye of a hurricane once more.


	16. History (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s AU Astrid Dane mulling over her next move, plus some details on Holland's background with the Dane Organization.
> 
> CW: no warnings today; just Astrid contemplating some evil things.

Astrid leaned back in her chair, chewing the pointed tip of a fingernail while reading over the ledgers. Feet up on her ornate wooden desk and swirling a glass of red wine, she read over the week’s worth of figures written out in Holland Vosijk’s even, neat handwriting. Everything precisely added together with his math clearly displayed in the margins, each transaction listed with a name.

Astrid took a sip of wine, turning the page. Sunshine warmed her shoulders and long white blonde hair, long lines of light trailing over the ornate carpets and velvet furnishings. She smiled at the preciseness. The man was taking extra precautions -- reporting things down to the half cent in some cases. It functioned under the guise of remedying his mistakes of before, a good faith effort to do exactly what Athos and Astrid had asked of him, but she could read between the decimal points. 

Holland Vosijk was truly terrified. 

For himself. For his job and home, his neighborhood and good-standing. For the little girl he had brought from Paris, who he protected more than he cared to protect himself.

It was all well and good for now, but Astrid knew she would have to up the ante sooner or later. Her soft threat would only take her so far and Holland would slip up again. People always did, especially when they were worried. Stress led to oversights and misplaced commas. Stress led to bad sleep and too much coffee, frayed nerves and shot concentration that would give way to mistake after mistake after mistake.

Eventually, anyhow.

Holland was a guarded man. Little showed without his express decision to let it. It was why Athos and Astrid had selected him to begin with. They had been actively recruiting soldiers returning from Europe and the case of a Russian man escaping Paris was too interesting to pass up. They hadn’t known anything about Holland Vosijk when they had sent the money, the tickets for an ocean liner departing out of Liverpool. The Danes had been in it for the story, for the heaps of gratitude an escaped man could give them. 

When they actually met him in the flesh, they knew they had their man. All six feet of him with broad shoulders and strength better suited to digging trenches than accounting, dark-haired and stone faced, dressed in a brand new suit in a dour shade of grey. Unsuspecting with a hint of ruthless survivor’s sensibilities. Athos had liked him immediately. Astrid liked what she could dangle over his head. 

Astrid and Athos’ natural proclivity for violence hadn’t upset him -- although Astrid would never forget the face he made the first time he witnessed a Dane questioning session. His unwavering ability to see things for what they were gave him a leg up in the interview. His catching eighteen individual mistakes in their accounts after looking at them for only ten minutes was just icing on the cake.

Holland Vosijk was a strong right hand for the White Twins’ organizations. Stoic, serious to a fault, with all the human warmth of a marble statue.

Except for that little girl.

Astrid hummed and spun to look out the window, feeling the full force of the afternoon sun spreading across her limbs and chest. She stared down at the street below, watching cars and people vy for dominance in crosswalks.

Holland Vosijk loved that little girl. And she wasn’t even  _ his _ . He had negotiated in his interview for papers stating that he was her father -- why or what for, Astrid didn’t know exactly. He was the kind of person who would run himself ragged tying up loose ends and she had assumed that was one of those moments. Astrid assumed he would give her up. That little Natalya Vosijk would disappear shortly after the forger upheld her end of the bargain.

But she hadn’t.

That pattern had continued up to the present. He started late every morning so he could walk her to school and took a long lunch at three o’clock so he could walk her home again. He had to be home at a certain time each night to make her dinner, to tuck her into bed, and insisted Saturday be his weekly day off. To do domestic things like laundry and groceries, to take her out to lunch or ice cream.

Astrid thought it was abhorrent but never had a reason to despise it. Well, to despise it in a way that would push her to action. Holland was an excellent little worker bee, more effective than almost a third of their staff as it was. When the Danes said jump, Holland did and then asked how high the next should be. The requests he made, the requests she and Athos allowed, were only a natural extension of the deal they had made nearly six years earlier.

Holland worked for them indefinitely. Whatever they asked, no questions asked. In return, his rent would be paid for and his citizenship would be fast-tracked. Little Natalya got her papers, her public American education. Whatever they asked, no questions asked, and he would never worry another day in his life. And Holland, ever the secret optimist, had bought in.

Hook, line, and sinker.

For five long years, he had been perfect. Frankly, he was still perfect.

Except for that red-headed reporter.

Astrid closed the ledger, pulling out a file folder placed in the back cover, and then tossed it aside. The Danes ran an expansive network of bars, nightclubs, restaurants, and jazz halls throughout the city of New York, including the White Fox, White Rat, and White London clubs under their personal oversight. Their protection, if paid for on time and in full, was guaranteed. That amounted to nearly 78 establishments. Managing it all required a lot of eyes, a lot of partners, a lot of quiet payoffs, presents and bribes.

So Astrid wasn’t the least bit surprised when one of those eyes delivered a note to her waiting hands. A young man was poking his nose where he shouldn’t be. A reporter or someone who very much believed he was with the last name Maresh. A quick search of any newspaper revealed his family ties -- Kell Maresh, 27, of the Maresh banking dynasty. 

_ Yes, he’s one of those Mareshes _ , Astrid had told Athos, a wicked grin on her face. 

_ And no offer of a buy out? Control over out accounts? _ Athos had mused.  _ Such a shame really. We could have brought them down in a month flat. _

_ A week, if that. We’re crafty enough and they’re soft old money. _ Astrid had shrugged, then went in search of a chess piece and an address. A little white rook of chipped ivory, dropped through a mailslot and their problems would be taken care of. 

And then another report crossed her desk, signed off on by another one of her secret eyes stationed at White London. The Maresh boy had been there one night several weeks prior. He had been deep in cups, a liberal tipper, but with a distinctly wandering eye. He had been seen several times in the company of one Holland Vosijk in the intervening weeks -- coffee and breakfast out, idly smoking as Holland walked to the little girl’s school, a few nights out at another bar, nights the redhead came home with him and didn’t emerge until early morning. And then they had been caught in one of White London’s back room, reportedly being quite  _ friendly _ with one another.

All harmless, if one of them wasn’t a reporter and the other wasn’t the White Twins’ accountant.

Holland should have known better.

Astrid smiled to herself, flicking through the little reports and surreptitious photographs. It was the perfect thing. A ready-made reason for a punishment. She loved scaring Holland, perhaps more than she loved scaring anyone else. 

Holland had been caught talking on multiple occasions to a newspaper reporter with ties to one of New York’s wealthiest families, who had been seen asking about the White Rat and a certain partner who had washed up dead on Staten Island months earlier. Astrid had no reason to believe he was divulging state secrets, that the two men were little more than bed partners, but Astrid didn’t need a reason. She just needed something that looked as good as, and here it was. Cause enough for a good, healthy punishment. Put the fear of god in the man once and for all.

Astrid picked up a photograph, taken from around a street corner of Holland lifting the little girl over a rain puddle. They were both laughing, carefree, oblivious. Wouldn’t she just love to smother that? Pull the right strings to make sure Holland Vosijk was in their employ and in their debt for the rest of his life?

Besides, Astrid still had his little girl’s papers. Copies, yes, but it wouldn’t take much for the originals to be recovered from their cramped apartment. It wouldn’t take much for every document stating that Natalya Vosijk ever existed to just… disappear.

Would it?

Astrid replaced the photograph in the file, grinning wickedly. It was simply too easy. She’d be a fool to not take what was given to her. She always had before.

_ Little Nasi Vosijk, your father's life is as good as mine. _


	17. Cooking (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, two chapters in one day! Now we're all caught up!! Modern AU -- Holland shows Kell how he treats his dates (to almost disastrous end). 
> 
> CW: discussion of consensual spiciness, allusions to Holland's sex life; mostly fluffy angst. So have fun, stay safe.

“I’m guessing you don’t do this for just anyone.”

Holland looked up from the kitchen counter where he’s quietly working on dinner. Rain pattered against the windows, a single lamp casting shadows around the room. “Not remotely. Usually people who erm… stay the night.”

Kell managed a frail smile, his voice still shaky. “I’m guessing you mean sex and not former students who wash up at your door confessing their love?”

“No, this is a first,” Holland said, trying to keep his voice light and his expression easy. 

This evening had started as a quiet one, reserved for working on the next section of his thesis paper and grading the latest round of essays from his freshman students. It had been quickly derailed by a knock at the door, behind which stood a distraught Kell Maresh with an apology and a confession on his tongue. And Holland, still feeling bad about what he had said months ago while sick, had let him in without another word. Talya would laugh at him later, then maybe tell him how sweet he had been, tell him he was going soft or had been soft all along until his cheeks turned pink.

“I’m sorry,” Kell said for the ninth time that night. “I sh-should go, you don’t need to take care of me right now. I’m sorry--.”

“Stop talking,” Holland said, leveling a serious stare at the younger man. Kell’s mouth snapped shut and his eyes widened. Not the reaction Holland was looking for, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. “I’m not taking care of you, Kell. You happened to come to my door and I happened to be making dinner. No apologies needed.”

Kell swallowed and sunk down on the couch like a child hiding from a parent. Holland might have laughed if Kell hadn’t been so recently emotional. He wasn’t fragile or delicate, just shaken and strung out. And if anyone knew how to soothe that feeling into dormancy, it was Holland -- or rather, Margaret Vosijk’s recipes as made by her youngest son.

Holland liked to be correct about these things.

“So, um…” Kell sniffed. “What are you making for dinner?”

Holland glanced at him. “Pierogis.”

“You know how to make those?”

“Of course I do,” Holland laughed, checking the pot he had set to boil. “How else would anyone have them?”

“We used to buy ours from the store, frozen…” Kell admitted sheepishly.

“Ah,” Holland pursed his lips. “Well, then, these are going to blow your mind, Maresh.”

Pierogis were second nature to him. He had spent so much time folding the little dumplings to freeze for later, he could move through three dozen without blinking. Flour, water, potatoes, onions, and butter were cheap. Put together in this exact way, they were damn near luxurious. An easy salve for homesickness. A quick solution to after night class hunger. A rather delicious way to pull someone in or hold them in his bed for another round.

Holland smiled to himself as he folded the dough around the mashed potatoes. His mother probably wouldn’t have been too proud about that last one, but it was the truth. Unconventional, but Holland knew from experience that good food was the simplest way to get someone to stay the night.

“Is that what you tell all the girls?” Kell asked carefully. When Holland glanced over, he saw the teasing in Kell’s blue eyes. The certain sparkle that would appear in their tutoring sessions or when out drinking, now that Kell wasn’t his student anymore.

“Girls, boys,” Holland shrugged. “I don’t try to be all that picky.”

“Just not me?”

“I didn’t say that… exactly.” Holland cleared his throat and turned back to his work. The water had come to a boil and he carefully dropped the first five dumplings into the water, timing the minutes they took to cook on the microwave clock. He had a skillet of onions cooked to melted nothing with butter waiting in the wings, just like Marya had taught him. “I just. Don’t think of you that way.”

“So you have a type?”

“Nope.”

“But you do. Your type is everyone but me.”

“In that case, my type is everyone but my students.”

“But I’m not your student anymo--.”

“Kell, are you asking me to hurt you?” Holland snapped, turning to look right at him.

Kell jumps, staring at him. Mouth opening him and closing like a beached trout as the gears turned behind his eyes. Eventually: “I, I mean… it’d make it easier to move on, if you just hated me outright.”

Holland stared at him, confused and vaguely amazed. He hadn’t been lying when he had said he and Kell had a kinship, had more alike than Holland would have liked to admit. Even from across the apartment, even without knowing anything more than what Kell told him during their sessions, Holland could see through this. The need to push people away to keep from hurting themselves or burdening anyone. The preference for isolation, to coax out a response that would justify keeping one’s distance to the same end. 

Holland saw it. Holland understood it. Holland had figured Kell to be better than that.

“You want me to hate you?” Holland raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Kell nodded.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“Then you would have kept arguing to leave when I told you to say,” Holland answered matter-of-factly. He swallowed back a couple other things he wanted to say, knowing they wouldn’t serve any purpose than to give Kell exactly what he wanted. And he didn’t want to do that right then.

He pulled out the first batch of dumplings, depositing the doughy pillows on top of the onions, and dropped the second batch into the water. He was going to make three batches for him and Kell, then pack up the rest in plastic bags to freeze for later. Simple movements, back and forth, in plain imitation of Marya and the other church ladies every Saturday morning. Just like he remembered his mother doing when he was young.

As he rotated from the second to the third batch, Holland lit the eye under the pan with the onions. Then he looked to Kell, waving him over. “Come here, Kell.”

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Holland sighed. “I’m making you dinner. It’s the least you could do.”

With a mumbled “okay”, Kell unfolded himself from the couch and wandered over. He stayed a few feet away from Holland, giving the man a decent perimeter, and hunched himself to be smaller. Holland rolled his eyes and reached for the younger man’s wrist, pulling him forward to the stove. He prodded Kell into pulling out bowls and forks, showed him how to flip the pierogis to coat them with just the right amount of butter and onions. Kell was tense the entire time, watching Holland with a healthy degree of caution. As if he was both worried about putting a toe out of line and considering where he might do that exact thing. 

Holland didn’t pay him any mind until the third batch was cooked and deposited into the onions, the boiling water turned off and emptied into the sink. He paused for a moment, then made up his mind. He was about to go entirely against his better judgement, was already prepared to regret what he was doing. It was stupid and irrational, in another light incredibly cruel and unfair. But he had made up his mind, and Holland wasn’t good at stopping himself when the wheels were put into motion.

Letting out a slow breath, Holland steps up next to Kell. He wraps an arm around the younger man’s stomach, leaning his chin against Kell’s shoulder to watch as he stirred. Within seconds, Kell stiffens.

“Holland?” He began in a shaky voice. “What are you doing?”

Holland reached to turn the stove off, letting his fingers skim over Kell’s arm as he did so. “Do you want to know what I would normally do, if you were someone I had brought home with me?”

“W-What?” Kell stammered, turning. His blue eyes were a clutter of confusion, hope, and the barest shred of lust.

“I’m asking if you want to know what I was talking about,” Holland repeated.

“L-Like… like if, if I was your type?” Kell whispered, near-breathless.

“Precisely.”

“Yes.”

“I figured as much,” Holland murmured, taking a deep breath and slipping into what Talya called his “off-hours persona”. The man who had learned he could make eyes at most anyone during a night out with success. The man who knew who he was and what he wanted. A carefully hidden warmth that he could show or shield with too much ease. 

Kell swallowed hard, his cheeks turning pink. “Oh god…”

“Not quite,” Holland smirked, head tilting to the side. He tightened his hold on Kell’s waist and maneuvered him around so they’re chest to chest. He let his fingers run over Kell’s ribs and up his back, settling at the small of his back. “So, first thing, I keep them close to me. Nothing obvious. Just setting the tone, warming them up.”

“Is this b-before or… or after you’ve, um?”

“Before,” Holland answered. “If this were after, I wouldn’t be so reserved.”

“This is _ reserved _ ?” Kell coughed. “I’m just out of practice, I guess…”

“Or you’re used to being in control,” Holland shrugged. “Then I do this -,” Holland leaned forward, his cheek brushing against Kells as he picked up one of the forks. Back and forth slowly, indulging the light touches, feeling Kell shiver and melt. Back in place, he looked away to cut one of the pierogies in half and added more onions to the bite. He held it up. “C’mon, open your mouth.”

“You seriously do this?” Kell asked, looking dizzy.

“Mhmm, and it works every time. Now open up.”

It came all too naturally. Setting the dumpling on Kell’s tongue and pulling the fork away, placing it within easy reach in the onion pan. Looking at him with warm eyes, blinking slowly. Running his tongue slowly over his bottom lip as Kell swallowed and did the same. Impossibly, the redhead’s blush turned even redder.

“So, how was it?” Holland asked gently with an eyebrow raised.

“G-Good. Really, um, really good.”

“Yeah?” Holland smiled. “Want another?”

Kell nodded, stunned. As Holland reaches for the fork, Kell’s hands press into the sides of his face, pulling him in for a hard kiss. Heated and desperate, hands clutching at Holland’s tee shirt and hair. Holland froze, hand dropping to his side. He has half a mind to push Kell away, his plan obviously gone too far. But, before he can, Kell is pulling away, colliding with the refrigerator and shaking.

“Holy shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I sorry--,” Kell dissolved into apologies. Shaking, stammering, surprised at himself. 

Holland can only watch for a minute, seconds ticking back before he can take a proper deep breath. He closes his eyes, tucks his head, and takes another breath. Then he steps forward, holding a hand out to Kell. “Don’t. It’s fine. I… This is my fault, okay?”

“N-no, I jumped. You weren’t serious, but I--.”

“Kell!” Holland said firmly. “It’s alright. Just… It’s alright. I led you on.”

“Yeah, you did. Kind of.”

“I did, so it’s not your fault.” Kell wasn’t going to take his hand so Holland stepped even closer. He makes sure he has Kell’s eyes on his before taking him by the shoulders and pulling him into a firm embrace. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have even offered.”

Kell clung to him, face buried in his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just, I just… I wanted to, really bad.”

“I know, and I shouldn’t have opened that door… But, um…” Holland smirked, leaning close to Kell’s ear. “That was the fastest anyone has ever, you know, responded to that.”

“I was?”

Holland laughed lightly. “You sure were. So, um, just so you know.”

“Well,” Kell giggled too, watery and uncertain but growing stronger. “At least there’s that.”

“And more pierogis.” Holland leaned away, looking Kell in the eyes. “Seriously, do you want to eat? I owe you after… after what I just did.”

“You sure?”

“Well yeah. I can’t eat all of these by myself. I don’t go running enough. Plus… I think you and I have more than just this to talk to.”

“Yeah, think so too.”


	18. Myths (In World)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In World/Canon-Compliant -- a very young Holland Vosijk and his fascination with the Silver Wood. A very short installation, but hopefully enjoyed :)
> 
> CW: brief references to White London's violence and death of a parent; otherwise nothing.

A young boy sits at the edge of a dark, vast forest. Bundled under blanket after blanket to keep out the cold, he looks like a small boulder in the endless winter dark. 

He was far closer than the common person would dare to go even during daylight, and it had gone midnight already. Only his pale cheeks would have given him away, but only if anyone was awake to see him or brave enough to approach. Had anyone been awake to see him, they would have written him off as having a death wish. 

The Silver Wood was sacred ground.

It was where the Old Gods walked. Where wolves menaced and the wind whispered. Where ghosts wandered, faint and hollow.Where the trees rose stoney from the ground, obelisks to where the life of Makt made its final stand against the darkness.

The little boy waited night after night after night in front of the Silver Wood. Bundled against the cold, wiggling his nose to keep it from going numb. Quick green eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of something. Something fantastic, something terrifying, something the mysterious.

The tall, imposing form of an Old God.

His mother’s ghost.

The faint shimmer of magic in starlight.

The magic was what gripped him tight, pulling him towards the dark trees every night. Magic, faint and beautiful. Longed for and lost. In Makt, magic was a fairytale, told to children and spat-on by adults. Magic was a myth, a legend. Something scoffed at, fought over, killed for. Save for their amulets and binding spells, the tattoos and scars littering their skins and bones, the people of White London did not believe.

But Holland Vosijk believed.

He was fast approaching his sixth birthday and he believed. His older brother relentlessly teased him for his adoration, his reluctance to let go of the fantasy and see painful reality. But Holland still believed.

He believed in the scarce and dying magic.

He believed in the Someday King and the secrets of the Silver Wood.

He believed in the vivid, colorful tales his mother wove for him until the hour she died, that he could still recite in his small voice exactly as she had.

The beautiful young women, dressed all in black, who slipped from between the trees in search of young men. Their sparkling white hair, bright golden eyes, and ringing laughs that would lure any unsuspecting onlooker. The spells they would weave in the air, taking their new paramours into the deepest part of the woods, only to transform into wolves and devour them whole.

The creatures, bony and black. Stick-like and lanky shadows that bent between tree roots and the midnight blue sky, beckoning children forward into the underbrush. Taking them far away, never to be seen again. 

Eaten? No. 

Killed? Perhaps. 

Trapped for eternity with the fair folk? Not precisely. 

Where the children ended up after taking the shadows’ hand? Ushered through a hidden door leading from Makt to another world, a ruby red one that had not been seen in hundreds of years. 

The Someday King in his silver splendor. 

The snow clearing away, revealing velvet green grass before his boots. Streams and rivers were born from the dragging blade of his great sword, carpets of wildflowers blooming in the sweep of his cape. His arrival would be announced by a warm rush of wind through the forest, blowing out over the Sijlt and through the alleys and markets of London.

He would be the savior of the Kosik. That’s what his mother always said, and she had believed too. When she took him up in her arms, carrying him through the markets covered in a shawl to protect from prying eyes, she would tell him how the Someday King would save them. The streets would be clean and the weather would warm. There would be sun high in the sky, leaves on the trees, and no longer would she have to haggle for the old vegetables in the market. Cutthroats wouldn’t lurk in the shadows to snatch those flashing their gifts and the little boy could leave their home without covering his face.

Because a dark spot had appeared in the corner of his left eye. Black and growing.

The mark of a magician, of the  _ antari _ .

Holland Vosijk believed in magic, believed in his mother’s fairy tales and legends. He had to believe, because he was one.


	19. Firelight (Amid the Ruin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original prompt for this was "de-aging" and because I (a) had no idea what that was and (b) when I looked it up had no idea how I would incorporated it, I'm shirking the rules for today. I've changed the prompt and am humbly offering an unpublished section of my fic, Amid the Ruin. A scene between Holland and Beloc, with a sleeping Nasi nearby. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: discussion of violence and death; allusions to murder, noncon, dubcon, sexual assault. Please be warned, this is a lot heavier than the last few sections have been.

“I thought about strangling him in his sleep sometimes,” Beloc whispered to the crackling fireplace. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, relishing the warmth seeping through his skin. “Sometimes I’d lay there, wishing I could take one of his belts or the sheets, wrap it around his neck and end it.”

He trained his eyes on the large fire, focusing intently on the sparks and embers. The crackling of tree bark, the way the logs crumbled and shuddered as they burned. How far into the midnight black of the king’s chambers the comforting golden-orange glow extended. 

Beloc did his best not to look at the king, sitting only a few feet away. 

Holland was nearly hidden by the shadows. His pale fingers holding a cigarette and the white bundle of Nasi in her nightgown were the only indication that Beloc was not talking to the shadows themselves. The Dane Twins were many months dead now, but their shades seemed to still lurk in the walls, the gardens, and the darker corners of the palace. Beloc often found himself convinced that they lived in his skin, in his dreams, in his own shadow on sunny days.

Holland had taken to inviting him into his study in the evenings, ostensibly to talk but Beloc always did most of the talking. As the sun set and liquor warmed his bones, Beloc’s tongue loosened. He would spill secret things in the dark, to the fire and the man who was now king.

Holland never said a word.

But Beloc knew he listened. He could tell in the way the older man breathed, in the stillness of his shape in the other chair.

Tonight was different.

“Do you know what it feels like to be under them both?” Holland’s voice didn’t so much cut through the shadows as become one of them. Deep and low with all the soothing cadence of an easy sigh.

Beloc turns his head enough to watch the smoking end of Holland’s cigarette -- Arnesian, left over from the war. He knew from it’s warmer, faintly spiced scent. “Yes.”

“I as well.” Holland exhaled a silvery cloud of smoke, something in his shoulders relaxing. “It was part of their breaking wheel, as it were. It was built into their plan to… well. To create what so many people still hate.”

“They don’t hate you,” Beloc says, shaking his head. He hears Holland’s sharp exhale and rolls his eyes. “They don’t. They’re just… I don’t know. Defrosting, from the last seven years.”

“Defrosting… I’ll remember that.”

“You should,” Beloc presses. He takes another drink and stares into the fire again. Feels the warmth of the flames spread across his cheeks, his nose, his hands. More admissions bubble up and recede, bubble up and recede, until finally --. “I was only under. Under  _ her, _ once. After, after that once, it was only him.”

Beloc can’t see it in the low light, but he knows Holland nods. He knows Holland is listening. “One is not better than the other, and one is not better than both.”

“It was all terrible,” Beloc breathes.

“It was. I only wished I had ended it sooner.” Holland shifts in his chair. “Could have saved us both the pain or, at the very least, shortened it.”

“Shortened the humiliation,” Beloc mumbles to himself. He sat back in his chair, a familiar feeling beginning to roil through his blood and turn his stomach. The half-sick, clammy and numb, grimey sensation spreading across his skin, sticking to his face and hair. Collecting on him until he could feel it’s weight, feel it’s dirt. Feel how hollowed out each encounter with Athos made him. The very feeling he carried with him as he stumbled from the dead king’s bedroom through the halls, down the stairs, and into his own. The feeling he could never quite scrub clean.

Holland hums. His face doesn’t move, his expression still and soft in the firelight. “Humiliation…” He says at last. “I suppose that’s the right word for it.”

“What would you call it?”

“I’ve never called it anything before. Just… just something to live with. It made it easier not to give it a name.”

Beloc takes a long sip of his wine. “Did you ever imagine killing them too?”

“Constantly.” Holland smiled. A little bitter, a little victorious. Beloc guessed he deserved to -- Holland had been the one to kill them. Both of them. Holland had ended it.

And where was Beloc?

Fetching clothes for Athos and closing the door, too terrified to approach the bathroom door and entirely unsure about what was happening. The next time, he had been hiding Nasi in his aunt’s home, waiting for word from Ojka that the palace was safe to return to. Waiting for the announcement that the queen was finally dead. Beloc had been safe, stashed away, told to protect himself. That he was too young, that he would be more useful elsewhere.

He wanted to resent Holland for those decisions. He wanted to hate himself for not being strong enough to stay. And, at the very bottom of all those things, Beloc still wanted his revenge -- a revenge he sometimes wondered if he would have had the strength to follow through on, instead of freezing and giving Athos the opening to kill him first.

“I imagined killing both of them and then myself,” Holland admitted in a quiet voice. The cigarette dangles from his hand, dropping ash onto the stone floor. He holds Nasi close to him, the air around him tensing and straining. “The first two years, I imagined nothing but running them both through with swords or slitting their throats then doing away with myself. Leave nothing behind, let our memories fade and rot as someone took the throne for themselves.”

“How would you…” Beloc felt nearly sick asking the question, but he pressed ahead. “How would you have done it? Yourself, I mean.”

“Drown,” Holland shrugged.

“In the Sijlt?”

“Precisely.” Holland took in a long breath. “I was… fairly dramatic. When I was younger.”

“Not a terrible way to go…” Beloc shrugged. “I thought about pushing Athos far enough that he would snap and kill me. Either fight too much or bore him. I, um. I couldn’t ever get up the courage to, to…”

“You were a child. You’re still a child,” Holland supplies, voice stronger. He rolled his head to look at Beloc, green eyes dark and sparkling in the low light. Intense, dangerous. But not the same man who had yelled at him, ordered him around. Not the man he had wanted to hate even as he provided Beloc some kind of a way out. “So, you know how it feels to wish for death every day?”

“Yes.”

“So do I.” The cigarette found its way to Holland’s lips for a slow inhale, moving down in a smooth arc as he exhaled silver smoke into the dark. “You told me once that we had  _ that _ in common... You remember?”

“Yes,” Beloc whispered. “I’m surprised you did.”

“If you knew how much I remember... Never mind. I only mean to say that I am sorry that we have so much in common, Beloc.” Holland’s voice took on an edge in the dark - strained and sad. Beloc kept his head down, swallowing more wine to let the man finish his piece. “I tell Nasi often that I wish I had done more for her sooner. That I wish I had not been so numb as to abandon my morality... It’s high time I said the same to you.”

Nasi shifts in his arms, pulling his attention away. Beloc glances to the side and watches as the older man soothes the little girl back to sleep, wrapping her in a blanket and cradling her to his shoulder. She whines and squirms, but settles herself quickly back into his arms. Beloc hadn’t known Nasi well before, but he had gotten to. 

Beloc envied her easy trust.

He envied Holland’s ability to summon the emotions he had thought were gone.

This man was a far cry from the one who had shoved Athos Dane’s head under bath water. A far cry from the one who had snarled at him and put him to work only a few years earlier. A very far cry from the exhausted, pale, silent guard standing to the side of Astrid Dane’s throne, blood dotting his clothing. This man is tender and understanding, but no less strong for it. Even-handed, benevolent, with a critical and analytical eye.

If Beloc had not been there for the subtleties of his transformation, he likely would have not recognized the Dane’s knight within Makt’s new king. Had he not seen the change before him, one day after another for years, Beloc would not have called him the Someday King.

“You don’t have to,” Beloc whispers. “I know you would have. If it-. If it hadn’t seemed so endless. So impossible.”

“You’re granting me absolution?”

“It’s over now. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you can make up your own mind now. And, perhaps, you wouldn’t want to. Suspicion and hatred are not unfamiliar to me, Beloc.” Holland puts out his cigarette and drops it to the floor. Beloc expects him to light another. But, instead, the man pulls himself up to full height and came to stand in front of Beloc. From the chair, Holland looks imposing, fearsome, even while holding Nasi’s little body to his chest. “Beloc, I am sorry that I had not done more to save us, save  _ you _ , before now. I hope what I have done now might in some way make up for the years you’ve had to endure.”

Beloc sighs and smiles. He nods, unable to summon the words he needs.

“I say that because I have something to ask of you,” Holland continues. “I understand that the inevitability seems far off from here, but I will not be king forever. I do not intend to die of old age on the throne, so I’ve been considering successors -.”

“Nasi, then? When she’s older, I mean.”

Holland shakes his head. “No, Beloc. You.”

“No.” Beloc says quickly, without thinking. “No. I can’t. I’m not-.”

“Not now, Beloc, not so soon. I’m not  _ that _ old,” Holland smiles gently. “It would be something for you to grow into. Ojka laughed in my face when I suggested her and, well, Nasi is far too young. She wouldn’t be nearly old enough to take over when I plan on stepping down, which leaves you.”

“I’m your last choice?”

“Yes, but you’re the best choice.”

“No I’m not.”

“Isn’t that for me to decide?” Holland asks. “You are a leader of the revolution. You are a knight at the right hand of the king. You grew up among the people of this country and understand the ravages of war, poverty, and poor leadership. You  _ understand _ them. You have seen enough to know how we can never go back, that there is only forward and that we deserve only better. I only want to do right by Makt and, if I’m not mistaken, you do as well. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Beloc shakes his head. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think about that. It wasn’t in the cards for him. What life had already given him was far too much. 

“That’s fine. I’m not asking for you to accept today, or for years. I am simply asking you to consider the idea.” Holland says with a note of finality. He steps forward and holds out a hand to Beloc. “We’ve had enough wine for the evening. Come walk with me, I need to put Nasi to bed.”

Beloc nodded and stood, still stunned. Thoughts swirl in his brain, his hands shake as he falls into step next to Holland as they walk towards the end of the hall. It doesn’t take long before words fall from his mouth. “You want me to follow you on the throne. You want  _ me _ to be king?”

“Yes, I do,” Holland answered. The man seemed to have limitless patience these days.

“What does that make me to you then? Am I still your knight--?”

“You are still my knight and advisor. You’re losing nothing,” Holland reassures, pushing the door to Nasi’s bedroom open. “Nothing will change until you want it to. This is entirely up to you.”

“You know, in some places, this… This might make me a son, to you.” Beloc says, picking the skin around his nails. “In Arnes, that’s how they think of it. I think in Vesk too. We don’t really have… we’ve not had something like that in centuries here.”

Holland turns to look at him, examine him closely. “Is that what you would like?”

“N-No. No. Not that, no.” Beloc shakes his head.

Holland hums. He reaches out, resting his hand on Beloc’s shoulder. “Not son, then… Brother, perhaps.” 

Beloc can only stare. “B-Brother?”

“Mhmm. It seems fitting. I did have one, once.”


	20. Loss (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s AU Holland Vosijk, Nasi, Talya, and Kell Maresh. A brief glimpse into Holland and Nasi's early time together, with an unfortunate next step in the plot. Sorry, not sorry. I might come back and make it even longer someday but, for now, enjoy!
> 
> CW: discussion of death, grief, anger, kidnapping.

_ 1943 _

“She’s gone, Holland.” 

Holland leans heavily against the doorframe, brass knob pressing into the palm of his hand. He stares at Peter, dirty and out of breath, as the other man twists a knit hat in his grip. “What do you mean  _ gone _ ?”

“They…” Peter sniffs, his face gone ashen. Tears pool on his lower lashes. He never manages to look Holland in the eyes, despite having known him for years now. “They got her. She’s… We think she’s dead.”

“Who?” Holland asked, lips numb. He stands still, held up by nothing more than the tension in his muscles and ligaments, by the strength of his spine. Deep down, he knows who Peter is talking about. Deep down, he knows exactly what this is. He can’t bring himself to believe it, to even latch onto the words as proper facts.

No, it isn’t true.

It can’t be true.

She was so damned careful.

“T-Talya,” Peter finally whispered, the last bit of blood fading from his cheeks. He looks ill, embarrassed, and lost all at once. He was only 25, his birthday less than a month before. Standing there in his street clothes and dirty coat, he made Holland feel impossibly old. “They caught Talya and took her--.”

“Where?”

“We don’t know. We lost them.” The young man finally looked up, wavering on his feet. “They’ve probably killed her already. I’m… I’m sorry, I… I have to go.”

Holland felt the world go out from under his feet as Peter made for the stairs. His body and brain no longer aligned with one another, and he stumbled backwards into the apartment. The door slammed shut, but he can’t remember doing it himself. He makes it within feet of their bed before his legs give out, sending him to the floor with a bang.

She couldn’t be dead.

She was so careful, she couldn’t possibly be dead.

He loved her, so she couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t just leave him alone like this.

Holland took in breath after breath, each one coming faster than the first. His vision blurred and stung with tears he didn't exactly feel as they ran down his face. He manages to push himself up against the wall before his resolve gives out completely. He buries his face in his hands, shoulders heaving with wracking sobs. Snot and tears slip on his cheeks, get in his mouth. He takes in gulping, shallow breaths, unsure if any air was reaching his lungs at all. He coughs and sputters, feeling more and more like a child with every passing second.

Talya was gone.

Talya was dead.

But she couldn’t be, she couldn’t be.

“Papa?” A small voice said in front of him. Small and high, worried and searching. Just like the little hands pressing to his shirt front and hair. “Papa?”

Holland pushes the little girl away and wipes his face on his shirtsleeves. He had nearly forgotten about her -- really  _ had _ forgotten about her. He shakes his head. “No, not your papa. Remember?”

Her blonde head tilted, muddy green eyes wide and disbelieving. Talya had brought her home one night and insisted she stay with them. Almost a year ago now. Nasi was Talya’s to take care of, Talya’s alone. Holland hadn’t wanted another mouth to feed as the war and occupation dragged on, another voice to keep quiet in the middle of the night, another small body to potentially trip over or step on. But he would have given Talya the world if she had asked, and all she had asked for was to take care of the little girl.

Who he was now left with.

Who was all he had left.

His heart sank further.

“Why’re you crying?” Nasi asked quietly from her new spot on the floor. “Wha’s wrong?”

Holland leans against the wall, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling. He shakes his head imperceptibly. He didn’t want to talk or move or think. He just wanted to sit here, against the wall, and waste away into the floor. He clears his throat, but can only manage a hoarse whisper. “She isn’t coming home tonight, Nasi. She isn’t coming home ever again.”

“ _ Maman _ ?” Nasi blinked, lips parting. “Why not? Where is she?”

Holland lowered his gaze to her’s. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, trying in vain to keep his expression still, his eyes empty. Trying so very hard to keep the sadness from overwhelming him, to keep the grief in check and shielded. He wanted to scream, but he can’t summon the energy. If he did, Talya might come back through the front door and tear him a new one for shouting at Nasi.

“She’s-,” Holland let out a watery exhale. “She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s not coming back because she’s dead.”

“Tha’s why you’re crying?” Nasi asked, her own voice quivering now. “Because  _ maman _ is dead.”

“Yes, Nasi, that’s. That’s why, I-.” 

The dam broke again, much to his complete embarrassment. He slid down further on the wall, covering his eyes with one hand and his mouth with the other. He has to keep himself under control. People died every day. People were dying every day. There was a war on. But he doesn’t want it to be on display. 

What he wanted, in all truth, was to drag himself into bed and stay there. Bury his face in the lingering scent of her pillow and pretend she could still come back. Senseless hoping, futile wishing. Things he thought he had abandoned years ago. Things he had taught himself to push past. He was older now and could admit he had seen much of life, but had accounted for none of it’s hurdles.

But he can’t. All the strength had gone out of his limbs.

And then a little body crawled into his lap, nudged under his arms and settled against his stomach. Holland wants to push Nasi away again -- he doesn’t want the reminder of the responsibility Talya had left him with, doesn’t want to think about what to do with the little girl now -- but he can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut, then wraps his arms around her, holding her close for the first time he can remember. Wet spots form on his shirt where her cheek presses into the fabric, her bird-boned shoulders shaking with her quiet tears.

“I miss her,” Nasi mumbled.

Holland takes in a shattered breath. “I do too. I miss her too. I should have told her to stay home, I--.”

_ I should have asked her to marry me. _

“She was gonna buy me a new coat. Tomorrow. She said so.”

“I know, I know,” Holland said through tears. He runs his hand over Nasi’s neat braid -- something Talya did every single morning. Something Holland didn’t know how to do. “I’ll get you a new coat some time soon, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Promise. I promise.”

_ I promise, Talya. I’ll get her sorted and cared for. I promise. I know you loved her, Talya. _

Nasi’s arms squeeze at his ribs, her head presses further into his chest. “I want her back. She should come back. I want her back, papa.”

Holland crumbles. “Yes, alright. Papa. You can call me that.”

~*~*~*~*~

_ 1949 _

“She’s gone, Holland,” Kell stammers, frantic and shaken to the core. “She was right next to me and then a car rolled up and, and, and then she was gone.”

“Gone,” Holland whispers. “Nasi is... gone.”

“Taken. They took her. In a white car,” Kell clutches at Holland’s shirt. His warm blue eyes desperate and scared. “I think they were after me, but they took her. I had the rook, I think it was me, and, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I tried to--.”

Holland doesn’t know where the strength comes from. One minute, he’s standing in the doorway of his apartment. The next, he has Kell Maresh pushed up against a wall, and not in the way they had become accustomed to.

“ _Who took her_?” He snarls, nose curling. Fury beats in his heart, right alongside his blood. His skin prickles. He can’t place a time he had ever felt this wildly out of control, but still completely in control. “ _Who_ _took Nasi_?”

Kell cowers underneath his hands, under his burning glare. He is breathlessly terrified. “The Danes. I’m sure of it. The Danes.”

Holland sees red. He pushes Kell aside, turning back into the apartment in a blind rage. He grabs his coat, his keys, and storms back out into the hall, slamming the door behind him. He rushes for the staircase, not caring whether or not Kell was with him.

“Holland, wait! You can’t-!”

“I am going to get my daughter!” Holland shouts behind him. “Alone!”


	21. Family (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s AU, Holland and Nasi with some Astrid and Athos Dane. This one is sad in a special way and, for that, I'm kind of sorry. We're approaching the end of this story arc, so it kind of only gets better from here. So, just think about that while you're reading. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> CW: violence, blood, man-handling, kidnapping, fear. And a whole lotta sadness. Stay safe, feel free to hit me up if you want an overview of this chapter. Don't hesitate to ask!

Nasi didn’t have a family. Not in the same way that her classmates at school did. They had a mother and father, sometimes siblings, grandparents, cousins. Nasi was not like them, she knew that. 

She had Holland, a man who claimed to be her father so she could go to school, so they could live in New York at all. He wasn’t her father, even though everyone thought he was. There had been someone else before, when they were still in France, a woman with sparkling eyes and soft hair who she couldn’t quite remember. 

She wasn’t her mother, Nasi knew that. She had had a mother at some point. A father too. Maybe siblings. She didn’t remember, but she had to. Because she didn’t look anything like Holland or the woman who’s photograph he kept in his wallet, but she was still here. She was alive.

Nasi didn’t have a family. 

She had never thought of her and Holland as one.

As she lay on the small cot at the foot of Astrid Dane’s bed, Nasi clutched her pillow and kept her crying quiet. When Holland had gone missing, she’d been scared, but he had come back. Hurt, yes, but he still came back to their little apartment. 

When the white car had rolled up to the curb and the two men had grabbed her, she had been terrified. She had screamed and flailed, threw out her arms to Kell, who had tried to grab her back, taken a few good punches for his efforts, and had run after the car, throwing something at the rear window when he couldn’t catch up. She had wrestled and struggled, kicking and shrieking until the moment she landed on the carpet at Athos Dane’s shoes.

The man, pale and sharp, had grinned at her. He looked like a statue come to life, teeth sharp and wicked like the wolves she had seen at the zoo. All the fight had gone out of her then and there, and Nasi had very quickly been reduced to shivering, terrified silence. 

Athos had pinched her cheeks, pushed her down onto the carpet over and over. Laughing. Always laughing. High and echoing against the dark wood floor and velvet curtains, rattling the chandeliers and vibrating the piano strings. 

Astrid had lifted her by the back of her dress, dragged her down the hallway by her arm. Astrid looked like her brother, cold and sharp. She was quick and vicious, shoving Nasi backwards into a dark closet and locking the door. Until she could be “useful to them.”

They were siblings. Twins. Family.

Astrid had said she looked like them. That she could be one of them too, if only Holland were out of the way.

Nasi shivered under her blankets, rubbing her eyes. 

When the first blow landed in the center of Holland’s chest, Nasi had screamed. Holland had come to find her, had stormed into the Danes’ apartment shouting and furious, demanding that she be given back. Astrid pulled her out of the closet then, dragging her back into the living room to dangle in front of the man. Nasi had never seen him angry. He only ever had three emotions in her mind: exasperated, serious, and faintly smiling. Never angry. Never bristling. Never swearing.

The relief on his face when Nasi had appeared, held in Astrid Dane’s vice-like grip, was palpable and the Dane Twins had lapped it up.

_ Give me my daughter, Astrid _ .

Astrid had only smiled and shoved Nasi to her brother.  _ You’re in no position to make demands. Are you, Holland? _

Holland’s jaw had tightened, his green eyes darkened in rage. A second later, he had rushed at Athos, only to run into Astrid. The woman, though small and slight, had forced Holland to the ground, grabbing him by the hair and throwing him to the carpet. It was only then that Nasi saw a knife fly from his hand, skittering across the dark wood floor. 

Nasi lurched forward, screaming and crying. Athos only laughed, holding her back by her arms as his sister dove on Holland. Her shoe -- an arched, pointed high heel -- was raised over her head.

She had only been able to watch the first few blows before she squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed, hanging limp in Athos’ hands. Hearing the beating was no better than seeing it. The sickening thuds against the wood floor. The slap of blows landing on ribs and jaw and stomach. Astrid’s excited breathing. Holland’s pained noises and hacking coughs. His shoes scraping against the floor as he tried to throw her off and failed. 

Athos happily telling Astrid to look.  _ Look how upset you made her, sis!  _

_ Oh! Look at those pretty tears _ , Astrid trilled. Her hand clutched at Nasi’s jaw, her sharp nails digging into her cheekbones.  _ Open your eyes little one.  _

Nasi shook her head, crying harder.

Astrid squeezed harder.  _ Open them. Or you make him bleed next. _

Nasi had whimpered and done as Astrid asked. She sniffed, tears pouring over his cheeks, stinging the fresh cuts on her face and dripping off her jaw onto her dress. She had never felt so little, so helpless. She was supposed to be brave. Everyone at school said she was brave because of her stories and solving mysteries. She wasn’t brave anymore.

She wasn’t brave as Astrid stepped aside to let her look at Holland where he lay on the floor, bloody and curled on his side. 

She wasn’t brave as she screamed and pulled against Athos’ grip. 

She wasn’t brave when Athos let her go, when she fell face-first onto the floor, when she scrambled over to Holland’s side and shook him by the shoulder. He was still alive, breathing in short gasps and coughs. His face was gashed up even worse than the time before. One whole side would be badly swollen and covered in a bruise sooner or later. Nasi whimpered, petting his hair and sobbing.

_ I’m here. I’m here. It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _ Nasi whispered, laying on the floor next to him. She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling his blood smear on her face, soak into her dress.  _ I’m sorry, papa. I’m sorry.  _

_ Oh Athos, did you hear that? She called him papa _ , Astrid had cooed.  _ This will be such fun, don’t you think? _

_ I think it’ll be much more fun once you let me have a turn, Astrid _ . Athos replied simply.  _ I’ll turn his back into art, you know that _ .

_ Later, dear one. Dinner first _ .  _ You’ll get your turn, then we can show the little one what you’ve done to her papa. _

_ She is cute when she cries _ .

_ They all are Athos. _

Laying in bed, Nasi sniffed and curled in on her side. Her pillowcase was soaked with tears. This was all her fault. She knew it was. If she hadn’t snuck away from school that morning, she wouldn’t have been with Kell on that sidewalk. And if Kell hadn’t been an idiot and gotten that stupid chess piece, the Danes’ people wouldn’t have been looking for him in the first place. It was her fault she wasn’t at home, in her own bed, listening to Holland shuffle around the apartment before falling into bed in the dark. 

They had taken her to see him again after dinner. After making her sit outside the door and listen again. After wiping her tears and cleaning her up. 

Nasi had wanted to scream again when she saw him, but she didn’t want to give Astrid the satisfaction. He was stripped to the waist and tied to a chair, slumped forward. His dark hair was wrecked, falling into his eyes. His breathing was all wrong, stilted and irregular. It took everything in her not to run to him -- again, she didn’t want to give Astrid the satisfaction. He hadn’t roused when she had said his name, tapped his nose, pushed one of her fingers against a cut on his shoulder.

She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t want that to be the image behind her eyes when she closed them. She didn’t want to be watched while she talked with him, didn’t want to only see him hurt and bleeding or whenever the whim struck the White Twins. She didn’t want to stay here forever. She didn’t want to be one of the Danes.

She wanted to see Holland.

She wanted to be brave again.

Nasi took in a deep breath and quietly pushed the blankets off of her. She knelt on the cot, looking over the bed to where Astrid lay sleeping. Sleeping soundly based on her slow breathing, the rise and fall of the heavy blankets. Holding her breath, Nasi slid off the cot and walked on silent feet to the door. Astrid didn’t stir when she opened it, nor when she slipped out. There was no one in the dark hallway outside and Nasi still remembered which room they had thrown Holland into.

He was laid out on his side on a cot similar to hers. His arms were pulled up in front of his face, his wrists tied to one of the folding legs. 

Nasi could hear his breathing as she closed the door quietly behind her. She watched as he curled in on himself more. He had no blankets, was stripped down to his undershirt and underwear. The room was far colder than Astrid’s room or the hallway. The White Twins didn’t do anything without purpose, and Nasi knew all of this was to make Holland’s ordeal that much worse. 

“H-Holland?” Nasi whispered as she tip-toed to his side. “Holland?”

The man flinched again, shoulders shaking in the cold air.

“Holland, wake up,” She whispered, then sighed. She reached out a hand, settling it gently on his hair. “Papa?”

Holland jolted out of the shallow sleep he had been in. His green eyes were wide, unfocused, confused. The bruises had set in, dark purple and garish against his pale skin. Eventually, he settled on her, mouth falling open in surprise. Nasi gasped -- he had lost a tooth.

“Nasi, what are you-?”

She pressed a hand over his mouth. “Shh, I came to see you. For a little while, while they’re both asleep. You don’t have to talk if it hurts. I just wanted to see you.”

She feels Holland’s mouth close and she pulls her hand away. He takes a shaking, deep breath and settles against the cot. He winced as he smiled at her. Not a real smile, just one to calm her down. Reassuring, yes, but protective.

“I don’t know what they want to do, but I’m gonna find out. I promise.” Nasi whispered. “I’ll figure it out and I’ll get us out of here, I promise.”

“Nasi--.”

“I can do it, I promise!” She insisted. “Trust me, papa. I can do this. We’ll get home soon.”

Holland blinked at her. “What did you call me?”

Nasi smiled sheepishly. “What? Papa?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because you said I was your daughter…” Nasi perched herself on the edge of the cot, leaning against Holland’s side to better look at his injuries. She didn’t think their at-home first aid kit would be much help with all of them. “And, if I’m your daughter, then… well. You heard me.”

Holland sniffs, closing his eyes. He bows his head forward as if in prayer. “Natalya, I… If I was a better father, then we would not be in this situation. If I was a better man, we would stil--.”

“Shut up,” Nasi hisses. “I don’t know any better. You’re the only one I’ve ever had and I’m not going to lose you, just like you’re not going to lose me. Got it?”

“Did you tell me to shut up?”

“Yes, because I love you. You can get me in trouble for it later, okay?” Nasi sighs. “I think I know what I can do, but I need you to tell me something first.”

Holland sighs too, but didn’t look at her. “Anything, Natalya.”

“What’s Kell’s phone number?” Nasi asks. 

“Why?”

“Just trust me, papa.”

“I trust you… eight seven two, five five three one,” Holland murmurs. He lets out another breath, then turns to look at her again. “ _Ya tebya lyublyu,_ _malyshka_. If they do not let me see you again.”

Nasi blinks away tears, offering her best smile. “I love you too, papa.”


	22. Shorts (Amid the Ruin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't quite know what to do for this one, but I did have some old shorts I wrote within Amid the Ruin that I'm not planning on using. I figured they would be best served here where more people could enjoy them! I'll get to work on something more original for the 23rd, but until then enjoy!
> 
> cw: not much; just a general warning for the Dane Twins and creepy proximity.

Holland rears back as Lethe’s feathers raise and the bird lets out a crackling, high pitched noise. He scowls at her. “Did you just hiss at me?”

Lethe responds with the same noise as before. The golden eagle was Astrid’s, a goodwill gift at her coronation from the peoples in Makt’s far eastern steppes. She had been instantly delighted with the beast, marveling in the strength and size of her talons. They had been an inseparable pair ever since.

Holland hated the bird and the bird hated him. At the palace it had been a mutual understanding and Holland had kept his distance. That was a much harder feat to accomplish this close to the front, where he had the misfortune of lodging in Astrid’s plush tent. He and Lethe were too close for comfort and neither of them were prepared to concede.

“Fucking bird.” Holland sneers at the ruffled, upset bird.

“Yes but she’s my bird, Holland,” Astrid said from behind him. The metallic click of her knife tapping against her silver nail covers punctuating every second. “So learn cooperation quickly or I’ll send you back to my dear brother as a skin rug.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Holland murmurs, turning away from the bird with one final glare.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Can you shut up for once in your life?” Athos snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was at his wits end, confined to Holland’s small study, exasperated with the details of whatever new plan the man had contrived over the last week.

Workers had declared a second strike and had settled in for the long haul. The city guard had now refused to use violence to move them. Soldiers had mutinied at all fronts, refusing to fire a single shell until they were sent better rations and new winter coats. Their superior officers were also refusing orders to shoot the dissenters no questions asked.

And Holland, as always, always had a plan. Always eight steps ahead, running to a solution, trying so very very hard to fix every little thing.

Trying to make every ingrate in Makt happy.

Hadn’t he learned anything in six years?

Holland’s voice cut off, an odd sputter of syllables trapped fast on his tongue. A moment of silence and then, “Athos?”

“Can you shut up for once in your life, Holland?” Athos repeated tersely. “Can’t you just keep your mouth shut for a minute and trust that sometimes I know what’s right?”

“You..?” Holland inhales deeply, then settles back into his chair. “Yes, your majesty. Of course you know what’s best for the people.”

“Oh stop with the simpering and lenience and passivity,” Athos groans to the ceiling. “Where’s your fucking fighting spirit, Holland?”

“Your majesty?”

Athos smacks the table, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls of Holland’s study. “I will handle this, I will handle all of this. Pack up your little war plan and go back to your room. I will meet you there in an hour.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Well, that’s tragic,” Astrid murmurs into her brother’s ear, hiding her mischievous grin behind her wine glass. She nods towards the fair and delicate princess, Cora Taskon, who was all but melting herself over the young Arnesian king’s arm. 

“Tragic? Dear sister, you’re being too nice. I think you meant ‘a fantastically painful display of desperation’.” Athos laughs, leaning back in his chair. 

Astrid almost immediately follows suit. The Taskon princess was an observant person’s dream come true – flowery, floaty, and delicate; clearly bored stiff by these proceedings; dramatically flirting with the king and crown prince of Arnes whenever her older brother was within ear shot. 

“Desperation, to be sure, but,” Astrid says, swirling her wine glass. “I blame the brother.”

“Yes he’s pushing too hard.”

“Or not hard enough.”

“Hard to say. I’d love to see how she reacts to me.”

“Or me,” Astrid grins wickedly.

Athos looks his beloved sister up and down, then reaches for the wine bottle closest to them. He refills their glasses, then raises his in mock toast. “I propose a wager. The first of us to get the little princess to convince her brother to keep the Osaron clause in the agreements wins.”

Astrid raises an eyebrow, but lifts her glass too. “Wins what?”

“How does a new horse suit you?”

“Done!” Astrid clinks her glass to Athos’. “Start looking for a dapple-grey, dear brother, because I will be winning this wager.”

“You think so?”

“I do. The little princess seems… femininely inclined.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Fancy seeing you out here, your highness.”

Rhy jumped and spun. He didn’t think anyone would be out on the balcony right now. There was a banquet going on inside, lively and full of the best Arnes had to offer. He had expected a few moments of peace to collect himself, but was now face to face with Athos Dane, one of the Maktahn Twin Czars.

The king and his sister, the queen, were more terrifying in person than they were in reports. All the photographs he had seen to prepare for the peace proceedings had shown them in stark black and white, cold and intimidating dressed as death-head hussars. Rhy had foolishly figured it was all for show, meant to instill fear into their enemies and citizens alike, similar to the machinations of media and state his parents had been so deft at.

The were terrible in person. Astrid, fierce and vicious, a snarling bear in woman’s clothing. Athos, serpentine and poisonous, waiting to strike. Rhy had trouble putting up a fight when they sat forty feet apart at either end of the arranged tables day in and day out. Now the man was spitting distance from him, dressed in a crisp white uniform of a cavalry officer, a sword hanging dangerously from his hip.

Rhy wondered if Athos could hear the hitch in his breathing. He wondered if the Dane twins could smell fear.

“Your majesty, I did not see you. Forgive me,” Rhy manages, straightening his spine and offering a warm smile. It was becoming more and more of a mask every minute. “I needed a moment of fresh air.”

Athos’ cold blue eyes trail up and down Rhy, making his stomach curl uneasily. “As you see, I am doing the same. Do you smoke, _mas hazra_?”

Rhy shakes his head. “No, never quite got the hang of it. My brother does though, so you might ask him to join you sometime.”

“I just might…” Athos drawls and walks forward. Rhy finds himself frozen under his stare in the worst way. A mouse under the gaze of a cobra. The man strides closer and closer, uncomfortably close, unbearably close, close enough that Rhy could smell the clove and cigarette ash on him.

“Is there something you need, your majesty?” Rhy asks weakly.

“Athos.”

“Apologies. Athos.” Rhy corrects without knowing why. “Is there anything you or your sister need?”

“Not particularly, although…” Athos Dane leaned in close, his nose nearly brushing against Rhy’s ear. Rhy goes statue-still, trying not to tremble under the fearful proximity, trying desperately to ignore the man’s deep breath next to his skin. Finally, after eleven very long seconds, Athos leans away. “I would love the name of your perfumer.”

“Oh,” Rhy breathes, swallowing hard. “Oh, yes, absolutely. I could have her brought to see you personally, if you would like.”

Athos grins, sharp as a knife. “I would like that very much, Rhy."


	23. Poison (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I misunderstood the assignment on purpose. I didn't do anything with poison but used this prompt more in the vein of "poisoning the well" or "poisoning one's thoughts". So, 1940s AU Holland and Nasi Vosijk, Astrid and Athos Dane, plus a little dash of Kell Maresh. Again, this one is heavy so be forewarned and enjoy!
> 
> CW: blood, violence, kidnapping. Nothing new for the Danes, but certainly new for Nasi. Stay safe!

For days, Astrid toted Nasi around like a lapdog.

Each morning, Nasi would be woken up and dressed in all white, just like the Twins. Then breakfast and into Astrid’s office for whatever the woman had to do that morning. Then scooped up and carried off to their car, trips to restaurants, empty bars and dance halls, a few offices, and one dry cleaners in a part of the city Nasi doesn’t even recognize. Each evening, they return to the apartment, to the sounds of muffled screams and laughter, to the hollow horror that Nasi would only admit feeling when she woke in the middle of the night.

Each day, she would repeat the phone number Holland had given her.  _ Eight seven two, five five three one _

Each day, she would look for an opening, a moment when someone’s eyes weren’t on her long enough to find a telephone.  _ Eight seven two, five five three one _

All through breakfast and errands. Through lunch and meetings and threats. Through dinner and bath and whenever they brought her to see Holland, who looked worse and worse each time.

_ eight seven two, five five three one. _

Nasi knew it by heart now and, should she ever find herself in that position again, she decided she might like to use it to harass the reporter during recess. But, for now, she kept thinking the small set of numbers. Over and over so she wouldn’t forget it. Over and over until she could find the moment to put her plan to action. Over and over until Nasi could be brave again.

She found her moment after lunch on the fifth day. 

Astrid had very few errands that day, landing the pair of them back in the Danes opulent apartment fifteen minutes after noon. Astrid pushed her to wash her hands and face, hang her coat up and go to the dining room, just like she’d seen mothers do when she’d gone to her friends’ homes. Astrid wasn’t motherly, only the actions were. In fact, Nasi complied only out of complete fear of the woman -- with her sharp eyes and sharper teeth, how any room she entered seemed to cool by ten degrees. 

Just like the witch in the books Kell had bought for her, the ones she had read by flashlight in bed but refused to admit she had liked.

“Home so soon, sister?” Athos grinned up at them from the dining room table. A rich spread of things Nasi had never seen or tasted before laid out on the table, just as at every meal. She had the dull feeling that she should want what they had; that she should be enjoying the lavish rooms and meals. But it only made Nasi sick to her stomach. For the first time in her entire life, she missed cabbage soup.

“Not many people to see and those we did rolled over like puppies,” Astrid trilled, waltzing over to kiss her brother on the cheek before taking the seat next to him.

Nasi followed, hopping up onto the chair that they had dropped her in for every meal. Right in front of them, so she could be seen and not heard. She didn’t like the way their eyes seemed to tunnel through her skin, even worse than her history teacher when she had a new excuse about missing class the day before. But it was usually only the Twins, maybe a servant in the corner. No one else.

“I see you’ve brought someone out to play,” Astrid said, leaning forward onto Athos’ shoulders as one of the servants could fill her plate for her. “Look,  _ Natakha _ , we have a guest.”

Nasi turned her head, but she had already seen him.

On the far side of the table, Holland was propped up and tied to a chair. He was redressed in his grey suit, the fabric torn and marred with rusty brown stains. His hair is pushed in the wrong direction and he seems more bruise than person. His injuries are worse than when she saw him last night. Nasi notes two fresh bite marks on his jaw, how dark the circles under his eyes were. His stare is ten miles long, unfocused, hardly there. He isn’t all there. 

Nasi bites the inside of her lip to keep from crying. She had learned quickly that the Twins loved it when people cried -- especially her, it seemed. She was determined not to.

“So quiet. That won’t do, will it Athos?” Astrid clicks her tongue against her teeth, drawing Nasi’s eyes. “Say hello to your papa,  _ Natakha _ .”

Nasi nodded, hating that Astrid called her that. Not even Holland called her that, not even at his angriest. She turned her gaze back towards Holland, who looked beyond her. Not at her, as if she weren’t there. “Hello, Holland.”

Maybe it made it easier if he pretended she wasn’t there.

“That’s not what I said.”

Maybe it was easier if he didn’t see her.

“Sorry… Hello, papa.”

If he didn’t see her, he couldn’t feel guilty.

“Very good,” Astrid grinned. She pointed to Nasi’s plate. “Eat up, little one.”

“Yes ma’am,” Nasi murmured, tucking her head and picking up her fork.

There were potatoes and fish, some sort of red sauce and pretty vegetables. Nothing Nasi recognized, nothing that filled her up or made her feel warm inside. Nothing like at home. Holland wasn’t a great cook, he tried but the neighbor ladies still had to help him sometimes. Sometimes they dropped casseroles and pastas off with kind smiles and left before Holland could protest or ask questions.

But there were some things he was very good at. Pierogies, soups, and dumplings. Pancakes and pirozhki and applesauce. Things that got a small bit of sour cream or jam, a sprinkle of dill or mint or something else green that Nasi didn’t ask about. He could make exactly one casserole, something he had learned while living in France and only made when he had to stretch his paycheck a little bit longer.

Sitting in all this opulence, eating this pretty fancy food off of real china and silver, a bitterness rose in Nasi’s chest and the flavor turned to dust on her tongue.

The Danes were living like this without another thought, but Holland was still stretching every last cent of his paycheck so she could buy a candy bar on Fridays after school or get her shoes resoled before January. Astrid Dane lived in furs and silks. Athos Dane kept four expensive cars and several silver-plated revolvers. Their apartment was filled with expensive trinkets and decorations, things Nasi could steal and pawn for a huge chunk of cash. 

Holland worked for them. Nasi knew that now; he had admitted it to her after he had disappeared the first time. He had worked for them since they landed in New York City almost six years ago. 

So where was their cut?

Nasi pressed bite after bite of fish to the roof of her mouth, tasting only the salt as she mushed it to nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Athos picked up his plate and moved to the chair next to Holland. Watched as he picked little bits of food and held them up for him to eat. It made her stomach turn, hearing Athos call him the sweet names she had heard Holland call Kell over the last few months. But she hoped Holland would eat because he was stubborn enough not to.

“ _ Idi na hui! _ ” 

A hard smack followed the outburst.

Nasi jumped in her seat, head jerking to the side. Her eyes widened and she tried not to smile. Holland was snarling at Athos Dane, who had fish and spit caught on his face. She was frozen in her chair, watching as Athos dropped the fork and broke the plate across Holland’s face.

“So ill-behaved,” Athos exclaimed, clearly enjoying this turn of events. “I thought I had beaten this out of you already.”

Holland, bleeding from lip and nose and jaw, growled, “ _ Zhri govno i zdohni _ .”

“Clearly not, brother,” Astrid sighed. She uncrossed her legs, bright red lips pursed, and stood. “Either that or you relit the flame we had snuffed out… Guess I’ll just have to up the ante.”

She sauntered away and the room froze save for the smell of food and Holland’s harsh breathing. He snarled and spit blood onto the carpet. Athos landed a few more blows before Nasi put her head down on the table. She didn’t know what Astrid was going to get. Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest as she heard Astrid’s heels clicking along the wood floor, getting closer to them.

Astrid whistled, high and clear. “Holland,” She practically sang. “Look what I have.”

“ _ L _ _ edyanaya suka _ ,” Holland spat. “What are you going to do with the copies?”

“Oh no, Mr. Vosijk, not copies,” Astrid snickered, her voice falling low and rough. It made shivers run through Nasi’s spine. “These are the real deal, genuine articles. You didn’t think we were just going to leave that crap hole apartment of yours unattended, did you?”

“ _ No _ ,” Holland gasped. “Astrid, no!”

Nasi tilted her head to see what was so important. Just over the lip of her plate, she saw Holland’s face, stricken and terrified. Athos and Astrid had their backs to her, Astrid holding up a few heavy pieces of paper. Nasi didn’t know what they were, but their appearance had Holland pleading and apologizing, begging for her to give them back. If he hadn’t been tied to the chair, he would have been on his knees.

And he didn’t even know about the lighter held tightly behind her back.

“Please, Astrid. Please, you can-.”

“Oh but I can, Holland,” Astrid shrugged and revealed the lighter, flicking it to life. She waved the flame back and forth across the bottom of the pages, tauntingly, and laughing as Holland cracked further with every swipe. “You see, Holl, you can’t keep her if you don’t have these. I know a lovely family out in Chicago that would be thrilled to add a sweet little girl to their family.”

“Please Astrid, I am sorry. I, I-- No!” Holland’s voice cut off in a wail as the paper finally caught fire, curling and burning orange in Astrid’s hands.

“Oops,” Astrid hummed. She dropped the burning paper to the floor at Holland’s feet, fawning over the tears now streaming over his cheeks. “There. That takes care of things, doesn’t it Athos?

“Perfectly, Astrid.”

“Thank you, I thought it would. Now… do you want to see how far we can push him?”

“Is that even a question?”

The White Twins grinned at one another, then dove on Holland like wolves on a stuck rabbit. Nasi, long forgotten, couldn’t watch it happen again. She quietly slipped out of her chair, out of the room, and ran to Astrid’s office. None of the servants stopped her. Neither of the Twins noticed she was gone. She closed the door, locked it tight, pushed one of the heavy leather armchairs against it, and rushed to the telephone.

_ eight seven two, five five three one. _

_ eight seven two, five five three one. _

_ eight seven two, five five three one. eight seven two, five five three one. eight seven two, five five three one. eight seven two, five five three one. _

“Hello?”

“Paper pusher!” Nasi shrieked, for once thrilled to hear the sound of Kell Maresh’s voice.

“Holy shit, Nasi?!” Kell exclaimed. “Don’t repeat that. Oh my god, where are you? Are you alright?”

“I’ll tell you later, but I need you to get the police and quick okay?” Nasi ordered over the phone. She stands on Astrid’s chair and looks out at the streets around her, looking for something she recognized. “We’re at the Dane’s, on Park Avenue. You need to hurry!”

“ _ Where _ on Park, Nasi?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I think by the museum but I don’t know!” Nasi bounces on the chair. “Just come quick okay? I think they’re gonna kill Holland!”

"Oh my god," Kell breathes. She can hear him fumbling around over the receiver, her nerves racing as she hears the Danes from the other room. They were looking for her, she knew it. "Oh my god, oh my god. Okay, I'll be there. I'll have the police, I promise. Just hang on okay Nasi?"

"Quickly! I'll be in the closet." Nasi shouts then hangs up the phone. She hops off the chair and bolts for the closet, the very same one Astrid had locked her in that first day. She slams the door and hunkers down under a canvas dustcover, praying it takes Kell faster to get there than it takes for Astrid and Athos Dane to find her.


	24. True Love's Kiss (Seance AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seance/Victorian AU, featuring Holland, Kell, plus mentions of Lila Bard and Talya. 
> 
> Warning for: mentions of death and difficult recovery. Otherwise, pure fluff. Enjoy!

“Slowly, Holl,” Kell said quietly. “There’s no need to rush. We have all afternoon.”

“Yes, but I’ve been waiting months,” Holland sighed, adjusting his hold on the younger man and brushing a bit of white hair out of his eyes. “You’ll understand if I am more than a bit impatient.”

“You’ve always been a bit impatient.”

“And you’ve always been too readily understanding.”

Months was an understatement. Holland’s body and soul had slowly been knitting themselves back together for just over a year now. His hair was still a faded, soft white. His limbs still felt disconnected from his mind. His energy would flag after minimal use, pain laced his attempts to push his  _ antari _ skills farther and farther. He slept longer than he ever had in his life, rarely left the halls of the Sanctuary, and when he did he walked the streets of London leaning on a cane, occasionally Kell’s arm.

Seven weeks earlier, Talya had formally split her soul from his and delivered full control of his mind, body, spirit to him. Holland had wanted the freedom to stretch, wanted to feel himself back safely in his skin without help, but he had not wanted to let her go. She had been dead for nine years, had taken three to reach out to him through the veil, had even then only appeared to him in the midst of seances for crowded audiences. 

Holland had had her close to him again for a year -- close enough to touch and talk, to hear her voice and smell her perfume again. Her presence had very quickly dredged up the longing he had become so very adept at suppressing. Her leaving had him terrified he would never see her again. 

But, Talya had not left. 

She still flitted through the Sanctuary halls, frightening students and fascinating guests. She used the midnight hours to dance alone in the large auditorium, humming the music to each of her favorite ballets as she moved through each dance, each scene, each story. As she indulged the spectral vision of the flames that had ultimately claimed her life.

Delilah Bard, the young medium who had brought Talya to his withering body, was still lurking in the Sanctuary. Stepping in on lectures and lessons, still unbelieving but unwilling to extract herself from to allure of mediumship. She had finally shed enough apprehension and suspicion to allow Kell to warm up to her. To allow him to begin teaching her. When she saw him, Delilah regarded Holland with distrust and something like fear. She gave him a wide berth.

“Fair enough, but I’d rather you not exhaust yourself before lunch,” Kell smiled. He squeezed the hand he held and firmed up his grip on Holland’s waist. “This is just coordination, just practice--.”

“Just a way to pretend I don’t need that cane you’ve loaned me?” Holland arched a dark brow.

Kell’s lips parted in protest, then came back together. “I. I suppose so.”

“I appreciate your efforts, but this?” Holland moved them in a slow circle, vaguely in time with the music Kell had playing softly from the corner. “This is the extent of the healing. I will not be the man I was before.”

“Perhaps,” Kell sighs, faint guilt weaving through his features. “I don’t believe that’s a good enough reason to not try, Holland. At least for the sake of keeping your strength up.”

The sadness had not altogether left his blue eyes. He still seemed relieved each morning when Holland woke, dressed, ate. Still hesitant to touch him, to move too close in his bed. Still afraid that he could jostle Holland the wrong way and undo all that Talya had done. Holland didn’t blame him, but he couldn’t explain that the tethers that bound him were stronger than before. He couldn’t explain because he didn’t altogether believe it himself.

He and Kell, dancing around one another, convinced it was safer this way.

He and Kell, fingers locked together, turning slow circles around Kell’s bedroom rug.

Holland exhaled, watching his feet more than Kell’s face. “For your sake then.”

“Not your own?”

Holland shook his head. “If I did it for myself, then it would never be done. I don’t believe I deserve the hope.”

“Well, I do,” Kell admitted softly. He paused them in the middle of a turn, lowering his hands but still keeping his fingers locked in Holland’s. “I believe you do. You’ve proven you do.”

“How?”

“You came back.” Kell bites deeply into his lower lip. “That’s the truth of the matter. Everyone else believed you were dead, a lost cause. Then you came back, you woke up.”

Holland squeezed Kell’s hand. “I don’t understand.”

“When you woke up, you proved that you weren’t a lost cause. Your condition wasn’t hopeless,” Kell said, staring at their fingers. “It still isn’t, Holland. If you would allow yourself the hope... Never mind. I see what you won’t because I’m young and optimistic, like you always said.” Kell let out a short breath and raises their hands again. “We should go back to dancing before I wear down your energy by talking.”

“Maybe,” Holland hummed, then stepped closer to Kell. He tucks his head against Kell’s temple, nose brushing against wavy red hair, standing chest to chest. He threads one of his arms under Kell’s, resting his palm against the small of his back and holding him close. “There. Better.”

“Oh is it?” Kell laughs lightly.

“Mmm, yes,” Holland smiles. “This way, you’re more like my cane than a dance partner.”

“And that’s better for you?”

“It is if I’m going to learn how to balance again.” 

They began moving again, small steps and slow circles in silence. The music had run out and neither of them were rushed to put it back on again. It takes a few minutes for Kell to tuck his head against Holland’s shoulder, his forehead coming to rest next to his shirt collar. Holland turns his head just enough to press a kiss to the other man’s cheek. He holds Kell closer, squeezes his hand tighter as they move in an easy three-step. 

Just as he once had with Talya.

_ The lies the living tell themselves…. _ Her voice rings in his ears. A sentiment from months and months earlier, said in earnest disappointment.  _ Shall I throw in an ‘I love you’ for good measure? _

He knew what she had meant now. Had known before, but had been well convinced it wasn’t worth it, that he didn’t deserve it. That perhaps he was playing with something he did not understand entirely, that verged on lying, on cruelty.

“Kell?”

_ He’s the reason I’m able to do this at all. He’s very sweet and earnest, Holland. I see why you’ve come to like him so much. _

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Oh… I love you, too.”


	25. Drop (1940s AU)

Holland cradled Nasi against his chest the entire car ride home. They were dirty and exhausted; hungry, shaken to the core. Nasi’s cornsilk hair was tinged pink with old blood, the collar of her dress torn. Holland’s shoes were badly scuffed, the knees of his slacks ripped open, and long, scabbed-over gashes itched along every inch of skin. Some were still open and weeping onto his ruined clothes. The events of the last week had left them stunned into silence, but they were safe. 

They were headed home.

Holland garnered some small measure of relief from that knowledge, but it wasn’t enough to obliterate the tumbling emotions around him. It wasn’t enough to soothe his conscience. The guilt for having put Nasi in that kind of danger, for having not kept a better watch over her. The residual terror of confronting the Danes shaking through his skin. The astonishment at their actually being gone -- arrested, their apartment raided by the police with the clubs and bars the next to search. The latent dread at the prospect of having to find a new job, a new way to keep Nasi fed and them in their small apartment. 

He let each one roll over him, holding tightly to the little girl secure in his arms. He leaned back into the soft leather interior of the Maresh family’s town car. Eyes closed, he ran numb fingers through Nasi’s dirty, tangled hair.

If he didn’t know better, Holland would have thought they were in France again.

Nasi was older now, heavier and taller than she had been at five years old. Holland felt older himself, felt the last five years in his bones and spirit. He was nearly 40, dressed in a ruined suit he had bought himself, not barely 31 and in a stolen British airman’s uniform. They were in the back of a wealthy family’s car being driven back to their home, not sneaking their way out of Paris to beg for protection and safe passage from the Americans. But they were still escaping.

They had escaped France together.

The had escaped the scrutiny of the Immigration Board.

They had escaped the wrath of the White Twins.

It had become an unfortunate but familiar pattern in their lives up to that point. Holland wished he could confidently say otherwise. He wished he had known better way back when, had known to exercise more patience in the days where he snatched up the first opportunity available. He supposed knowing those variations -- when to listen and consider, when to agree, when to employ reservation and caution, when to outright refuse -- came easier with age, time, experience. He supposed he should think of his younger self with a degree of kindness, a measure of understanding for all he didn’t know and was soon to find out.

Still, he wished his younger self had had the good sense to see the forest for the trees.

“What do you need?” Kell Maresh murmurs from the seat next to him. The silence of the car allowed his soft, choked-off voice to carry more than it would have otherwise. 

“I’m not sure,” was Holland’s stiff, hoarse reply.

“Well… Whatever it is, I’ll make sure you have it.”

Holland rubs slow circles over Nasi’s shoulder blades and back as the girl begins sniffling against his shirt collar. “I appreciate the sentiment, Kell, but we don’t require charity.”

“This isn’t charity,” Kell sighs, picking at a hangnail. “It’s a repayment, of sorts. An apology.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…” Kell fidgeted with his coat, his shirt, crossed and uncrossed his legs. “If I had taken her warning seriously and she hadn’t been with me when the car rolled up, then she would have been safe at home with you this whole time.”

Holland let out a slow, even breath. He moved Nasi away from his neck, carefully propping her up and shielding her face from the other man. He tilted her chin up to better wipe away the tears with the soiled cuff of his shirt sleeve. He was surprised she let him.

Nasi was already very much her own person -- stubborn and skeptical, fiercely independent, thoughtful, a leader when she chose to be. She had grown quickly from the silent, shadow-like child into a small force to be reckoned with. Between the arguments about her sneaking out of classroom windows and long explanations about why she needed to be home by six every evening, Holland forgot she was still a child. She was still young, still small. 

And he had forgotten. 

He had forgotten how much she had clung to him in the early years, how often he had nearly tripped over her or woken up in the morning to her small body pressed against his side. How she would struggle and cry at him loosening her hold on his pant leg, as if he was planning to leave her for good. 

Holland had tried his best, had fallen back on making things up as he went along. He rarely asked for help, determined to figure it out for himself, but accrued a lot of pity from the mothers in their building and women around the neighborhood. He wondered if he and Talya would have been better together. If they could have made a better go of it the two of them, instead of just him alone. 

He wondered if Talya would be proud of or disappointed in his efforts.

“Please, Holland. Just let me buy you groceries. Something?”

“Come up to the apartment with us,” Holland finally answered. “Let me get my daughter cleaned up and settled, then we can talk about what you could do.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It took both of their efforts to climb the stairs to their apartment. Holland leaning on Kell, Kell supporting him through every step. Nasi wandered somewhere ahead of them, too quiet for Holland’s liking and still wiping away the stray tear. 

When they make it to the fourth floor, their door stands wide open and Holland’s heart sinks. Astrid had happily ordered people to toss their entire apartment looking for those pieces of paper. Nasi’s French birth certificate, their naturalization papers, Holland’s work papers. All forgeries, all important, all gone. All kept safely in a locked box under his bed, the key tucked into the spine of a book that even Nasi didn’t know about. They couldn’t have possibly gotten in that way -- Holland knew the cadre of people the Danes hired to be their muscle when they didn’t want to get their hands dirty. They were blunt instruments, battering rams not lock picking tools. 

When they turned into the doorway of the apartment, Holland’s chest squeezed. They hadn’t found the key. They had smashed the box to splinters, forcing it open like a cracked watermelon, and shaking out the contents.

Holland already knew what was gone. He felt sick just thinking about them, how quickly they had gone up in black smoke in Astrid’s hands. But more littered their scuffed wooden floors -- his father’s pocket watch, glass face shattered; photographs of Talya in her performance garb, sparkling and smiling, still perfectly young and alive; postcards he had bought in Spain, Nasi’s first school picture, the lease on the apartment, his mother’s prayer book crumpled and torn. 

Kell’s hand pushed between his shoulders. “C’mon, Holl. You can’t stay out here forever.”

“I…” Holland started, but couldn’t finish. Any hope of words died in his throat as he watched Nasi step around then sit cross-legged among the wreckage. Her small hands ran over the broken pieces, picked up photos, her head tilting one way then the other as she inspected each one. 

_ Trust me, papa. I can do this _ …

“I, um, excuse me,” Holland choked out, moving out of Kell’s grasp and walking slowly towards Nasi. He leans down and, somehow, manages to scoop the little girl up into his arms. Pain shoots through his skin, his joints, to the very roots of his hair, but Holland needs to do his best to make it up to her. He needs to do something right, then and there. 

“Holland, you shouldn’t--.”

“I am fine, Kell,” Holland tossed over his shoulder, undeterred. He’d worked through worse pain than this. He’d suffered through days worse than the last five. Holland knew he would be fine given enough time. Nasi, he wasn’t so sure about. “I need to make dinner.”

“I can do that,” Kell said, his footsteps finally moving into the space as Holland walks into the small kitchen. “Holland, seriously. I can do that, you both need to rest--.”

Holland shot the redheaded man a hard look. It shut Kell up long enough for him to place Nasi on the counter and wet a cloth. When he spoke, gently wiping away the mess from her face, it was only to her. “Here, now. We will get you clean, then make tea and dinner, then bed. Just as normal, just as before. We’re home now, safe at home. You got us home safe, Natalya, just as you said. You did very well,  _ malyshka _ . So very very well. I am very proud of you.”

Nasi started sniffing again, her red-rimmed eyes again filling with tears.

Holland blotted them away with the cloth. “Ssshhh, no more tears. We’re home now. It’s alright.”

“Th-they almost…” Nasi mumbled. “Y-You…”

“What is it, Natalya?” Holland said gently, cupping her face in his hands, running the pads of his thumbs over her freckles. “Go on. It’s alright.”

“You, you… you almost died.” Nasi’s eyes closed tightly, her nose curling as she tried to keep down tears that were already spilling over. 

Holland had never been good with tears and, after a certain point, Nasi didn’t often cry. He watched the tears slip out of the corners of her eyes, clinging to her pale lashes, the way her little shoulders bounced with the effort. It made him feel painfully out of practice, painfully ill-equipped, painfully unworthy to be the one caring for her. He dropped the cloth at the edge of the kitchen sink, bundling her in against his chest again. He winced as the thin scabs knitting together the injuries of his back pulled and re-opened, but pushed it away. 

“Shh, it’s alright. It’s alright,  _ malyshka _ . It’s alright,” Holland whispered, eyes shut. He didn’t know what else to say. “I am still here, right here.”

“Holland?”

“What, Kell?”

“You’re… you’re bleeding through your shirt.” A hand came to rest at the back of his neck, warm and steady. Holland fought the urge to push Kell away, to tell him to leave so he could better care for his daughter. But he didn’t have the willpower. For the first time in years, Holland Vosijk felt truly weak.

“Let it,” he whispered. “It’s already ruined.”

“Yes, but… Holland, please. Let me help.”

“I already said--.”

“ _ You said _ we could talk about what I could do,” Kell pushed, an inch from snapping. Holland looked over at the other man, surprised. It was the strongest he had ever heard Kell sound. His blue eyes were set and serious, his shoulders squared and chin tilted up. Another time, Holland might have teased him about looking too much like an aristocrat. “You said, in the car, that we could talk about what I could do. I’m rescinding my offer. It’s no longer a question, I’m not asking you for permission. I’m helping, right now. And you are going to step back and let me.”

Holland stared at him, dumbstruck. Words failed him again. Spite and frustration was working itself up into a fury in his chest, but died when a small palm pressed flat to his chest.

Nasi, red-nosed and upset, pushing him away. Her dark green eyes looked up at him.

“Natalya?”

“You’re hurt. Let him help.” Nasi’s palm pressed more to his chest. “Please, papa?”

Holland swallowed tightly, unwilling to move and not sure where to go. Nasi was watching him, her eyes soft and concerned. Kell stepped closer to him, his hands moving back to under his arms, ready to take his weight. Holland blinked and took in deep, measured breaths. He could feel tears prickling at his eyes, closing around his throat.

All at once, his resolve dropped.

The wall he had carefully constructed over years crumbled around him for the second time that day. He broke, burying his face in one hand and sobbing into his palm. His grip on the counter wasn’t enough to keep him standing, and Holland felt the moment Kell took over. The moment Kell caught him, pulled him back up, and held on tightly.

“Papa?”

“He’ll be alright, Nasi. Give him a minute. It’s been a hard week.”

“I’d know better than you--.”

“Hey, no bickering. Not now. Can you go run a bath?”

Nasi hummed and, from what Holland could hear, hopped from the kitchen counter and walked to the bathroom. He wanted to reach out for her, to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness, to hold her close knowing that it was keeping him together more than it did her. It took everything for him to stay put, to let her pass. He stayed put, leaning heavily against Kell Maresh, unable to stop himself crying.

“Alright, Holl, it’s your turn now. I’m going to get you in a bath, clean out those wounds. I’ll get Nasi handled, alright? I’ll get her cleaned up, dressed, dinner, all of it. I promise,” Kell whispered in his ear, fingers threading softly through Holland’s dark hair. Dark with grime and dried blood. Starting to show age in a few silver threads at his temples. Holland couldn’t remember feeling so weak, so old. Kell settled the thoughts. “Do you trust me, Holl?”

Holland nodded.

“Good. I’ll get everything put back into place for you. Don’t worry.” Kell pressed a kiss to his temple and slowly guided him around, to better steer him towards the bathroom. “It’s alright. Just, let me help.”

Holland tried a watery smile. “I am, can you see?”

“I can see you’re trying,” Kell answered, returning the smile. “We can talk about what you need from me tomorrow.”

“Is this not enough?”

“No, not even close.”

“Then I know what I need to ask of you,” Holland cleared his throat. He brings them to a halt, just outside the bathroom door, where he can see Nasi stirring a hand through the warm water. He drops his voice so she wouldn’t hear. “I need new papers, for her. They are… They are all gone and--.”

“Done,” Kell cut him off. “Consider it already done. Specifics later. Bath and rest now. Deal?”

Holland nodded, more grateful than he remembered being in his entire life. “Yes, deal.”


	26. Summer Vacation (Modern AU - kind of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is a total one-off from something I know as the "Summer Camp AU" -- essentially much of the main characters are children and campers at a sleep-away summer camp where Holland, Ojka, and Talya are their counselors. It's mostly silly, meant to be an experiment in writing all the shenanigans the Dane Twins, Lila and Alucard would have gotten up to as children. So, just take this at face value or skip it completely -- no hard feelings.
> 
> CW: No warnings today. Just fluff!

Rest hour was just ending when the sky opened up. 

Kell had been laying on his bed, quietly watching the dark grey clouds roll in through the screened windows of Cabin 4. He hadn’t thought anything of it. Just a little bit of rain, and then they could get to the pool and popsicles and the litany of other things they waited all day for. But of course it wasn’t just a little rain, but all the rain for the entire summer coming down in one go.

A full force deluge.

All of eight of them had gathered around the windows, feeling the misting rain on their faces. They watched, giggling, as Holland did what all the other counselors were doing -- namely, struggling with the thin tarps that kept the water from getting on the insides. He kept cursing under his breath as the ropes tangled in the wind and whipped up into his face.

“Don’t tell your parents I taught you those words,” He huffed at all seven of them when he stepped back inside, looking more like a drowned rat than the high school senior he was supposed to be. They giggled as he stripped off his once - grey tee shirt and grabbed a towel.

“Hey Holland,” Alucard called from the top bunk, a lollipop hanging out of his mouth. “Fuckin’ a, man. Stupid fuckin’ rope’s a bitch.”

“Watch yourself, Emery.” Holland tugged a new tee over his head, further messing up his hair. He sighed, stretched and rolled his shoulders while staring out the small window in the cabin door, watching the rain come down in sheets. “Well, looks like the pool's closed today, kids.”

“Oh come on!”

“But I wanted ice cream.”

“It isn’t evening lightening-ing yet!”

As if on cue, bright white light burst in the sky and thunder rolled across the clouds, shaking the cabin’s tin roof.

Holland rolled his eyes and pointed to the ceiling. “Mother Nature seems to have it out for you guys.”

“Pro’bly because a’the arrows,” Athos groused, pushing his twin sister, Astrid, in the shoulder. “I tol’ you we shouldn’t have went after the sun.”

“Shut up, Athos,” Astrid hissed, snarling at the outside.

“Shut up  _ both of you _ !” Rhy shouted, thoroughly irritated. “The sun is the sun, it’s not trying to battle you,  _ oh-kay _ ?”

The Danes just hissed at him, something they did often now, leaning into the vampire act the more times Alucard, Rhy, Lila, and even Kell called them that.

Rhy just scoffed and crossed his arms, leaning against Kell as he pouted. “Well now what?”

“I don’t know… Cards?” Kell shrugs. His eyes keep flickering over to Holland, looking for an answer from the only person who passed for an adult. “Dungeons and dragons?”

“I wanted to swim…”

“I wanted to see my plants!”

“We played poker last night and go-fish is for babies.”

“I left my notebook in the dining hall, so unless someone has their own ideas we can’t play dee-an-dee.”

They fall silent, collectively moping and mourning the loss of their free time. Holland didn’t offer up any ideas, flopping down onto his bunk and closing his eyes. In a few minutes, his breathing slowed and Rhy was sure he was asleep. He looks around and then slides off his bunk.

“Listen,” he whispers. “I’ve got an idea and it’s a good one.”

“You never have ideas, or good ones,” Lila rolled her eyes.

He glared at her. “Well this time I do.”

“Then what is it, golden boy?”

“Let’s go play in the rain.” Rhy beams and gestures outside. “It’s fine as long as we stay close and it’ll be just like jumping off the tire swing into the lake except better.”

There’s some grumbling, then Alucard swings off the top bunk, landing lightly on the old floorboards. He jerks his head towards the door and opens it, slowly and quietly so Holland doesn’t hear. The rest of the cabin looks between one another, then collectively sighs and slides off the thin mattresses.

They sneak out the door and into the fresh gale, immediately breaking into full on laughter and delighted screaming. They were soaked to the bone in minutes, running back and forth across the small bit of grass playing tag. The rain comes down in white sheets around them, water and hair running into their eyes and mouths. 

When Kell looks up towards the cabin, Holland is sitting on the wooden steps. A raincoat sits uselessly over his head, a resigned smile on his face.


	27. Dream (Seance AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seance/Victorian AU featuring Holland, Talya, and my very loose word association. Enjoy!
> 
> cw: mostly fluff; one or two mentions of death and dying, but very brief.

A smile stretched across her face as she rose up onto her toes, arms and fingers stretching towards the ceiling. The netting and tulle of her skirts floated against her knees, drifting with the slight draft of the Sanctuary’s parlor. She bent and swayed as she shuffled backwards on her toes, remembering her teacher’s sharp voice telling her  _ not too fast, too slow, shamefully graceless _ . She had been an unlikely principal dancer, Talya knew that, but liked the idea that she made the crooked old woman eat her words.

Although, she had outlived Talya by about three years.

When she reached her mark -- the edge of the carpet next to Holland’s chair -- Talya dropped onto her heels and, resting a hand on the chair, lifted a leg into the air. Measured and smooth, the slow unfurling of a flower petal or fresh green leaves in spring. Her tutu rested at her knee, fanning in a perfect arc as she stretched her toes towards the ceiling.

They were not performing as they once had. The parlor around them was not filled with an audience of students and paying guests, the enthusiasts that filled the Sanctuary’s coffers and provided its mediums unwavering patronage. Only Kell Maresh, Lila Bard, a young man called Hastra, and Kell Maresh’s younger brother attended this odd recital. Holland sat in a straight backed chair, feet planted on the floor and hands folded in his lap. His hair, still a faded silver but growing darker every day, covered his eyes, strands catching on his eyelashes as he concentrated on his trance.

It was his first unaided trance since his accident, since Talya had released him to his body, since he had felt the first strains of his power returning to him. He and Talya had been practicing for weeks, pushing him longer and longer each time. Small increments, baby steps, all at Talya’s urging in spite of Holland’s impatience.

She could feel his impatience now, floating along the tendrils of energy that kept her visible and tied to the room. A subtle nudge telling her to move her dance along.

So she smiled and did. Lowering her leg, she turned around the back of his chair and moved back towards the center of the room. She spun, graceful and elegant, picking up speed with each rotation until she slid a knee to the floor, bending forward in imitation of the swan ballet she had watched over and over. Before she had learned she could move about the world in her own way, that she wasn’t tied to the theater she had spent most of her young life in. 

When she had discovered that she could find her way back to Holland again.

They had performed just like this for years together. Ballet had been Talya’s dream. From childhood she had wanted to spin and leap across a stage, play the fantastical roles and wear the extravagant costumes. She had achieved her dream in life and, through Holland, she had been able to retain it in death. Spinning and leaping before captivated audiences. Floating effortlessly without tiring about ballrooms and dining rooms. Grinning wickedly at the terrified faces of disbelieving viewers as she summoned phantom flames and vanished into a single curl of smoke.

Holland and her had good laughs about those moments. It made believers out of them all and earned Holland more clout. 

They had performed together for years. If Holland kept improving the way he was, they would be back to it in no time.

The man had not changed much over the years. He was stubborn, skeptical, suspicious of relying on anyone other than himself. He had begun learning his skills in solitude, observing other performers before going to practice the feats alone in the bedroom he rented. He didn’t approach anything close to a stage until he had decided he was close enough to mastery. He didn’t approach the Sanctuary until invited by the institution itself. 

Holland did not put his weaknesses on display. He did not indulge in mistakes. He would not abide excuses or a lack of commitment.

And there, Talya knew, lay his deepest flaw. If he could not master it, he would not continue. If the skill could not come easily, he would give up.

Not that anyone but Talya ever knew that. Only she had ever seen Holland’s temper tantrums. Only she had truly seen him pout and complain and give up when frustrated by a technique he could not get in two gos. Only she had ever been the recipient of his hard scowls, the only one to get away with laughing at his childishness unscathed.

This evening, Talya knew as she stood from the floor, was a big step for the man. Still shaky, still healing. And yet Holland had been the one to insist they do this. He had personally asked the small gathered crowd to attend. Every second, from top to bottom, had been Holland’s idea.

Talya let herself fade as she walked back to Holland’s chair. In her invisible form, she rested her hands on his shoulders, leaning her cheek against the top of his head. As he came back out of the veil, he lifted a hand and rested it on top of her’s.

“Thank you, Talya.”

_ Of course, dear. _


	28. Fantasy (Fair Folk AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is another one off but I hope you enjoy. Fair Folk AU where Antari act as the Fae. Featuring Holland Vosijk, Kell Maresh, Lila Bard, the Dane Twins, and Nasi. Dedicated to my partner, who loves fantasy more than anyone I know -- honey, I tried my best.
> 
> cw: mentions of blood and general danger.

The law of the Silver Wood had been set in stone long before there were humans to heed them.

Do not approach the Wood at night. Do not spend long within the trees and heed the bells that ring at dawn and dusk. Carry something with you for protection, but respect will always be your best protection. Call them the  _ fair folk _ , the  _ golden ones _ , the  _ gentry _ ;  _ royalty _ ,  _ aven fae _ ,  _ blessed antari _ . Their names are venerated, say them as such. Do your business quickly. Do not wager what you cannot lose. 

And never reveal your name.

The Silver Wood went on forever. The Silver Wood had been there always. For days and weeks, years and decades. On and on in every direction, sprawling. A living thing, breathing, stretching, heaving. 

Many over the years had ventured into the trees, determined to find the other end and the rumored riches that lay there. None returned. Their names were added to a list, a candle lit when they were remembered. But the people, believers or no, understood the hubris of their actions. 

The trees would show you humility if you could not.

Non-believers still gave the Wood a wide berth, eyed it with abundant caution as they passed by the trees as they went about their days. They did not leave offerings but they knew the rules and followed them to the letter. They warned their children, told stories that kept them safely from the dark trees. They kept irons in their homes and certain herbs hung from doorways. They kept their babies close and their amulet protections closer. 

They did not seek the sight or the touch. Only fools, they said, were tempted by the dangers of blood.

Believers, ones who insist they can coexist with the ruthless magic, leave offerings at the edges of the trees. Butter, whiskey, milk, honey, and oats tucked into the underbrush and between tree roots. Those who come frequently say their gifts disappear, are accepted and enjoyed. They say it earns them favor, if only for a moment. Gifts of clear spirits granted children and fortune. 

Gifts of blood granted The Touch. The Sight.

_ Magic _ .

That’s what they all wanted in the end -- the fresh flush of magic, clean in their veins and hot under their skins. The power that few knew and fewer remembered the consequences of. A brave soul could venture into the Silver Wood, make a deal with the Fae, and be granted magic at their fingertips. 

They all wanted magic in the end. They all wanted the power, the clarity.

Humans were not meant for magic.

But they wanted it. Every last one of them.

So they left offerings at the edge of the trees. Butter, sugared bread, and warm honey for the White Fox. Old whiskey, older pocket watches, music boxes and cream for the Black-Eyed Prince. Oats, green ribbons, and seawater for the Grey Thief. A small prayer, a small obeisance, and they may come to you in your sleep. 

The  _ antari _ were dangerous, unpredictable, but everyone knew that their word was trustworthy once given. Their deals, though spoken on the air and in dreams, were set in stone like the laws of the Wood, their home.

The more daring and fool-hardy sought the  _ antari _ out in their home. As the dawn bells rang through grey morning light, they slung packs over their shoulders and made their way to the treeline. After a few breaths, and perhaps some reconsideration, they would step over the small offerings and into the undergrowth. Minds set on taking their requests to the  _ antari _ in the flesh with silver threaded through their hands and blood smeared under their eyes.

Cold wind without source ran through tree limbs, petrified to stony silver and stretching towards the sky. There were no roads through the woods, no markers to keep a lone adventurer on the path. The Wood is dangerous in their own right. Wolves, bears, and wildcats both earthly and spectral lumber through the shadows. Birds of prey soar and screech overhead. 

The  _ rusalka _ Twins that beckoned travellers from their quests, plied them with wine and beautiful faces. Soft voices pulled them along, deeper and farther away. Too far away to scream when they finally showed the blood on their teeth, the ice their pale eyes. Rumor had it they had once been human, children of a village chieftain, a great warrior, a half-goddess. The very few who escaped their clutches were proof they were human no longer.

The Wood was dangerous. The Wood itself breathed and swallowed travellers, adventurers, the curious whole. Those who ventured in claimed some of its creatures became familiar -- phantom rabbits racing along streams, glowing orbs that sang as they wove through branches, over-stretched shadows with bright eyes and the tangled racks of deer. Familiar only meant you knew them, and they you. 

Familiar did not mean safe.

Those who had been before and returned told of what the  _ antari _ looked like, so those who would venture in after could recognize them.

The Grey Thief had many forms, but you know her when you saw her. She lurked near the streams, ponds, waterfalls, and rivers that threaded, dotted, and rushed their ways through the great forest. Seekers commonly see her as a young woman -- sharp in the face, skinny as a reed, a wide grin ready to cut. She grants 

Should you catch her with her dark cropped hair windblown and her cheeks rosy, your odds of a good were favorable. 

Should you see her in a sailor’s coat, half-drowned, and hollow in the eyes? 

_ Run. _

The Black-Eyed Prince is a serious young man who never stays in one place. He is found in clearings, drifting about stone circles erected by the Elders like a slim shadow. Glimpses of pale skin, smooth and unscarred, as he slips behind a tree trunk. A golden crackle of magic as he paces unseen, listening, judging. Flashes of copper hair, brighter than the coin tucked into your pockets. Slipping in and out of the periphery until your eyes crossed. Rumor had it, the Prince could stand in two places at once.

He is said to make the best deals, to listen the longest and hear your whole case before deciding. When he is ready to make an offer, he will appear in front of you -- A tall young man, handsome and fair, with bright blue eyes and soft red hair. Soft warm voice, soft warm light.

Therein lies the trick: he will listen for hours, but present a single offer. Take it or leave unsatisfied. 

They say it’s best to bring more offerings of whiskey and whipped cream if you seek the Black-Eyed Prince. Best not to offend him.

Only those in the most dire of circumstances ever sought out the White Fox. The most desperate would make the long trek into the heart of the forest, risking night fall and all else, for the privilege of an audience. Very few had ever seen him, but all who had struck a deal knew his voice. A dark rumble carried on that strange chilled wind. Calming and terrifying both. But they would because his agreements cured all. The White Fox, it was whispered, found favor with the lost causes, the desperate, the dying.

He dwelled in the darkest part of the forest, where limbs bent and tangled with one another, crushing out sunlight, moonlight, starlight. There was no sign of the sky here. There was no safe harbor among the roots and vines.

The White Fox is heard before he is seen,  _ if  _ he chooses to be seen. 

The only person living that claimed to look him in the eyes was a young girl, barely nine years old. With only a small pack on her shoulders, she slipped through the forest to his home to ask for the safe-keeping of her brother. 

According to her -- and many had asked -- he first appeared as a white fox, sitting atop his altar still as a statue. His tail flicked back and forth, his deep voice snaking through the briars and bushes, shaking the bones inside her. The little girl quietly made her case, then laid out offerings of buttered bread and a jar of honey and waited on her knees for a verdict.

_ Look at me, child. I will not grant your miracle to the top of your head _ .

When the child looked up, she came face to face with a man dressed all in white. Hair dark as midnight, eyes an emerald green far too vivid for the darkness around them. Broad-shouldered and tall, strong, with scars lacing his pale arms. She said he smiled at her as he sat cross-legged on the stone stairs, eating the bread and licking golden honey from his fingers. She doesn’t remember saying anything to him in return, only that she held the rest of her butter out to him.

_ You’re very generous for someone so small _ , he grinned, swiping some yellow butter onto a finger and licking it clean.  _ I will help your brother, but you will have to do the work. Do you understand, little one? _

She had nodded, barely breathing.

_ Very good. You will spend the night here, with me. It is too late for your safe passage home. _ The White Fox tore off another chunk of bread, smeared it in honey, and bit into it. His eyes lit up happily, then he continued.  _ Tonight, I will collect what I need for your charm. You will take it with you in the morning in your dress pocket. Do not wear it yourself and do not let another soul see it before your brother lays eyes on you. After you put it on his neck, you will wash your stockings in the river and hang them in front of the fire. If the fire goes out before daybreak, the charm will fail and your brother will die. _

The child nodded and agreed.

She stayed the whole night in the forest, curled up underneath the altar of the White Fox, the  _ antari  _ himself her ever-present guard. When she woke, a delicate glass pendant sat in front of her nose. Remembering his words the night before, the little girl stuffed the pendant in her dress pocket and began the long walk home. A faithful and brave little soul, she followed the White Fox’s instructions completely. Her brother lives.

Every morning, she brings a fresh loaf of bread smeared with butter and honey to the Silver Wood. She tucks the bounty inside a wooden box made without iron and whispers a small  _ thank you _ to the trees. A daily offering to the White Fox out of gratitude.

Every so often, a curious onlooker has approached the box before dusk only to find it empty.

Every so often, someone will spy her by the riverbanks, collecting mushrooms or wildflowers, a ghostly white fox trotting in front of her and licking milk from the palm of her hand.


	29. College (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So today is technically "high school au" but I just don't want to even think about high school rn, so I flipped it to college/university au. Mostly because I have more college students in my life than high-schoolers, so readily available inspiration. This is a total one-off, doesn't go with anything else in this entire collection. Just enjoy a world where Kell Maresh and Ned Tuttle are strange, kind-of friends who occasionally go ghost hunting for Ned's podcast.
> 
> No warnings. Enjoy!

“Hello!”

Kell jumped and spun around in the theater lobby. The voice belonged to a boy taller and lankier than he was, bespectacled with strawberry blonde hair. Kell had meant it to be a lonely night, just a trip to a live podcast recording for a few extra credit points he didn’t need for an English class he had perfect marks in. He hadn’t wanted to go, but needed a drink, needed some fresh air. Needed to quit moping while writing his speech for Holland’s wedding in a few weekends. He hadn’t expected to talk to anyone at all.

Kell only blinked. “Hi.”

“Are you here alone?” The boy says politely, gesturing towards hopeful. He had an accent — British, upper-crust, but not stuffy. Clean, bright.

“Um, yeah. Yeah I am,” Kell answers after clearing his throat.

“Oh good, I am too.” He grins, pushing circular frames further up his nose. “I’m just here for the year, trying to meet people, and your aura is green so I thought—.”

“My what is what?” Kell’s head tilts and he wonders what kind of conversation he’s gotten himself into.

The boy is unfazed. “Your aura. It’s green, bright green. I figured you’d be a good person to talk to.” He shifts weight, some of his bangs falling in front of his eyes. “Sorry, my um… I shouldn’t say things like that fresh out of the gate. I’m an exchange student, in the folklore program.”

“So, the supernatural is your thing?” Kell nods, taking a deep breath. “Explains the aura thing. I didn’t know I had one, to be honest.”

The boy’s smile falters. “You’re messing with me? Aren’t you?”

Kell shakes his head. He was too exhausted to bother with messing whoever this boy was. He seemed harmless enough, soft and eager, if not a little too friendly for the late hour and Kell’s general demeanor. “Nah, you’ve just caught me off guard. Been having a weird day. I’m Kell, by the way.”

The boy takes the hand Kell offers. “Edward. Call me Ned.”

“So what does green mean?”

Ned brightens. “Oh! It depends on the shade, but green usually means good things. Friendly, thoughtful, natural, all good things. Yours is emerald, deep and clear, so I thought you would be understanding and, and kind.”

Kell followed, but just barely. This Ned spoke a mile a minute, was more energized than Kell ever was, even on a good day. His brain sort of glazed over after Ned said green meant good, catching only ‘emerald’ and ‘understanding’ afterwards. He just nodded, held eye contact like his mother taught him, and tried to decide on his next question. 

Ned beat him to it. “Is Kell short for anything?”

“Not that I know.” Kell shrugs. He catches the crease in Ned’s eyebrows and then explains. “I was adopted. Kell is what I’ve always been called, but I don’t know if it was the one I was given. Know what I mean?”

“I think I do…” Ned licks his lips, then changes tack. “Do you listen too? To the show?” 

“Know, just here for extra credit and the halloween spirit. I assume you do?”

“One of my favorites, been listening to it since the beginning,” Ned says excitedly. “I… Don’t tell, but I’m here to take notes too. I want to start my own show, tell some stories from back home and pick some up while I’m here.”

Kell feels himself laugh and smile. “Then you picked the right state. Massachusetts is full of weird shit, old money families aside.”

Ned ignored his last comment, walking backwards to the now-open theater doors. “Really? I knew about Salem, and a scant few cemeteries in Boston proper but nothing else.”

Kell follows, starting to enjoy the company. Easier to forget his sulking and sour mood when talking about aura coloring and, now, New England cryptids and ghost stories. Kell surprised himself with the amount of stories he had retained from childhood, school, and ghost stories around summer camp campfires. All the haunted houses, the errant cemeteries, witch trials and wandering souls, phantoms, ghouls, demons, and monsters lurking in the shadows of colonial ghost towns.

Ned hung on every word, from the lobby to the seats they chose in the theater, all the way up until the moment the lights dimmed and the intro music started. He pulled out a reporter's notebook and handed it to Kell, asking if he would write down every last one so he could look them up later. He was cheerful and curious, his hair flopping and glasses sliding with every laugh or question or slight lean forward. 

When the lights went all the way down and the show started, Kell found himself glancing at the boy from the corner of his eye. The way he sat and listened, every time he crossed and uncrossed his legs. The lay of his collared shirt under his sweater, the wash of his jeans, the color of his coat and the glint of his eyeglass frames. How the stage lights caught his pale face just enough that Kell could catch every quirk of concentration. It was more interesting than the show itself.

Kell settled in, listening to the host talk about something or other up in Danvers, but keeping a close eye on Ned’s reactions. His heart constricted when he realized it was the exact way he would watch Holland’s features during campfires, in the low light of the cabin before lights out, the worried scowl when they had decided a midnight swim in the lake was a good idea. 

The beaming smile when he got off the bus for the reunion weekend.

The way he would chew his lower lip when he was reading.

The happiness in his voice over the phone when he told Kell he and Talya were getting married.

Kell kicked the memories away, pushing away the sting in his heart and his eyes. The weird breathless feeling was fixed with a good deep breath. He glanced over at Ned, seeing if this perfect stranger noticed his childish sadness. Judging from the tilt of his head, the way his lips were parted in awe, he hadn’t. Kell took another deep breath and relaxed further into the seat, riding out the rest of the show in half-distraction. 

Kell sits up when the lights come up, shrugging into his coat and chewing his lip. Ned’s already talking at him about his thoughts, how he had never heard of the story, that the music was better in person than over the wires. Kell nodded and listened, but accidentally cut him off mid-sentence without realizing it.

“Do you want to get a drink?” Kell surprises himself with the question.

Ned looked even more surprised. “A drink?”

“Yeah, do you drink?” Kell pushes forward. “I know a place nearby. They say it’s on a ley line. We could talk more there?”

A warm, relaxed smile overtakes Ned’s features, reaching his eyes — green, like Holland’s, Kell notes with a little dismay. “That sounds lovely, yes. I’ll buy.”

“Not if I beat you to it.” Kell stands, shoving his hands in his pocket and stepping into the aisle. “I know the owner.”

Ned laughs, walking next to him out into the mid-October chill. “Is it really on a Ley line?”

“That’s what they say. Barron has it marked with a bronze line in the floor.”

“You don’t know what a Ley line is, do you?”

“Not a clue, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me all about it.”

“Would you like me to?”

“I would, actually. I really, really would.”


	30. Joy (1940s AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have finally reached the end of the 1940s AU, and the second to last day of this adventure. Thank you for sticking it out with me and enjoy!
> 
> CW: No warnings, just angst and fluff.

_ December, 1950 _

When the wine glass cracked against the edge of the sink, Nasi might have guessed at how the night would end. Kell wasn’t usually so clumsy and especially not when handling the good dishes. But they were celebrating, and he and Holland had refilled their glasses more than a few times.

For the first time in Nasi’s memory, setting out the menorah with candles and laying out the good silverware wasn’t a strictly somber affair. Where she usually sat on Holland’s lap as he lit each wick in solemn silence, Holland actually laughed. He played music from their stand up radio as they cleaned and decorated the apartment. He insisted Nasi help him cook, and even told her where he had gotten each recipe --  _ latkes _ served with applesauce and sour cream as Mrs. Goldstein taught him when Nasi was little,  _ potravka _ with some additions from Talya (the woman in the photos he kept), the “flaming tea” trick that he did every year but now with the story of how his father would tell stories in their dark home while doing it.

This year, Kell hadn’t had to work so hard to convince Holland to indulge in the wine he had brought. Nasi had smiled to herself as she laid out the matches on their small dining table, rolling her eyes as the two men danced in laughing, stumbling circles.

Kell had been around for almost two years, much to Nasi’s occasional annoyance. He had been added to their small circle of family, built on nothing but proximity and unspoken loyalty, trust. Kell Maresh was still a bit clueless, a little too sure of himself, and a little too keen on bossing her around, but he didn’t bother Nasi as much anymore. She’d never say she liked the redheaded man, but he bought her candy for their walks back from school. He listened better as they wandered through the neighborhood, working on a story or a new mystery. He took her seriously when she was upset, didn’t call her Natasha without asking, and even bought her birthday presents.

On top of it all, he made Holland happy. 

Nasi could put up with a lot of clueless if it meant Holland smiled more, laughed more. He had always been that way with her, behind the locked door of their apartment, but now he let it ease out when they left. At restaurants they went to for special occasions, picking up his dry cleaning, collecting her from school in the afternoons. Holland didn’t scare anyone by accident anymore -- only when he wanted to. And now that Nasi was a bit older, and Kell provided a second set of eyes, Holland had settled into acting more like her father than her supervisor. 

As he had tried to do ever since the aftermath of the Danes.

So when Kell dropped the wine glass in the sink, a spidery crack webbing its way across the clear surface, Holland was holding her close, reading out loud. His voice cut off mid-sentence and the crackling thud and Kell’s soft cussing. Nasi covered her laugh with a hand as they exchanged a look, as Holland looked up to the ceiling and smiled.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Kell answered hurriedly.

“And my glassware?”

“Um… less fine.”

Holland sighed and closed the book. “Let me come see then.”

“No, it’s fine. I can handle it-- damnit.” Kell’s voice trailed off as Holland walked into the kitchen. Nasi, bundled in a blanket and her book in her lap, could see both of them if she rested her head against the arm of Holland’s chair. “Sorry. I don’t think its… salvageable.”

Holland held out his hand for the wine glass, holding it up to the light. He rotates it, letting the spider-webbing cracks sparkle in the light. Slowly a smile spreads on his face and he glances back to Kell. “It’s alright. What is one glass when we have four more?”

“Sure, but these are --.”

“Special, yes,” Holland sighed, reaching for a kitchen towel and wrapping it around the half-broken wine glass. “But it is only a thing. I have told you before I am not one to expect things to be permanent.”

“You have…” Kell leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He watched Holland closely, brows creased in a mix of worry and confusion. 

“And it is not something I see myself ever giving up or letting go of,” Holland continued. He rested a hand on Kell’s shoulder as he leaned down, placing the towel wrapped glass between them on the floor. When he straightened up, he held Kell firmly by the shoulders and smiled. “Just like you,  _ dorogoy _ .”

Without another word, Holland pulled Kell into a kiss and crushed the glass with his foot. 

Nasi gasped, her eyebrows raising over the top of her book. She didn’t know if she should smile or stare or what. She didn’t even know if Holland was serious, was joking, was just giving Kell a clever way to cast off some of the blame. She didn’t know anything, except that Holland pulled away grinning, picking up the towel, and leaving Kell in a wake of wobbling, blushing confusion. Nasi couldn’t help but giggle at that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Natasha, what are you doing?” Holland asked, an eyebrow raised, as she poked a mushroom with the end of her chopstick.

“Nothing,” Nasi shrugged and kept at it. Every so often, she would glance up and look at Kell. Seeing how long it took to set the redheaded man completely on edge. It was her new favorite game.

“Does she not like it?” Kell asked in a whisper, leaning forward.

“No, she does,” Holland rolls his eyes, turning back to his own food. “We came here once a month when she was younger. I do not understand what  _ this _ ,” he waved a hand over Nasi’s head. “What this is.”

“Thank goodness for take out boxes then,” Kell shrugged, lifting a dumpling from his plate.

Nasi finally rolled her eyes, picking up the mushroom and shoving it into her mouth. She guessed it wasn’t going to work tonight. Not while Holland was watching her anyhow. She’d figure something else out. For now, she sat up and began to eat in earnest. Noodles with vegetables and chicken, covered in the best sauce in the world in Nasi’s opinion. And she ordered them every single time.

It was Christmas, a holiday Kell wasn’t spending with his own family, so Holland invited him over even though they didn’t celebrate. Well, they did, in their own way -- sauce-coated noodles, pan fried dumplings, tea, maybe a bottle of Coca-cola if she was on her best behavior. The restaurant owner’s daughter would always appear with a small plate of almond cookies, which Holland let her fold in a paper napkin to take home.

She was dressed up for the occasion, which made her feel silly next to Holland and Kell, who wore the same suits they always did. It didn’t look like dressing up to her. But Holland had bought her a new dress and Kell had bought her decorative pins for her school braids. It only felt right that Nasi should wear them when he was around to see them, when she could bother him at the same time.

“See, what did I say?” Holland sighed, gesturing to Nasi.

“She certainly knows how to keep us on our toes, huh?” Kell laughed.

“That is being kind, Kell. What goes on in her head, I will never know… Anyway, another drink?”

“Yes, please.”

“Back in a minute.”

Nasi glanced to the side, watching Holland walk back up towards the bar. The tilt of his head as he ordered, then chatted with the owner’s wife. She had maybe a few minutes, unsupervised, to get under Kell Maresh’s skin. But how was the real question.

She bit down on a fresh coil of noodles and it hit her. The broken wine glass, weeks before, that everyone except for Holland had forgotten. 

Nasi had forgotten too, and she usually remembered things like that. And, if she had forgotten, Kell had definitely forgotten -- and she was sure the other shoe had never dropped for him. She had learned quickly that there were a lot of things the man had never heard of before meeting them.

Nasi swallowed and smiled, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to try. “Kell?”

“Yes, Nasi?” Kell asked, eyes on his hands as he fumbled with his chopsticks.

“I just wanted to tell you that I really like the flower pins. They’re really pretty,” Nasi smiled, innocent as ever. She waited until he got the first bite into his mouth. “You’re kind of an okay stepfather, you know that?”

She watched with glee as Kell choked, coughing into his napkin. He managed to recover himself pretty quickly, but the pink flush and weak voice said otherwise. “Excuse me?”

“What, you didn’t know?” Nasi squinted at him, feigning confusion just like she did in English class once a week. 

“Didn’t know  _ what _ , Nasi?”

“That you and my dad are married now?” Nasi shrugged. She glanced to the side. Holland was still at the bar, talking. Probably wrapping up soon, but they also owned the dry cleaners that did his suits, so who really knew how long she had.

“ _ Married _ ?” Kell gasped. He coughed again, a hand coming to rest at his shirt collar. “We’re not  _ married _ , Nasi.”

Nasi shrugged again, playing with her chopsticks to keep from laughing. “I’m only eleven, but my dad has told me enough stuff to know that, at weddings, people step on a wine glass at the end of the ceremony and then they kiss.”

“Step on a…” Kell’s mouth drops open. He lets out a disbelieving breath, his eyes going wide and unfocused. “Oh my god… Oh. My god.”

It was then that Holland finally reappeared, drinks in hand. Immediately he looked to Nasi. “Natasha, what is this? What did you do?”

Nasi took a sip of her tea and looked up at him seriously. “The other shoe just dropped, papa.”

“About what?”

“I told him what stepping on something glass means at a wedding,” Nasi explained, then gestured to the purple flower pins in her hair. “I just wanted to thank him for these and said he wasn’t such a bad stepfath--.”

“ _ Natasha _ .” Holland cut her off quickly, sitting down and leaning close. Nasi stared at him, now actually afraid that she had crossed a line she hadn’t meant to. He took her hand in his, eyes hard and mouth set in a firm line. “Not so loud.  _ That _ is between me, you, and Kell. No one else. Am I understood?”

“I…” Nasi nodded. “Yes sir, but… but I don’t understand.”

Holland sighed and squeezed her hand. “You are right, that is what I meant by that, but no one else can know. I will explain sometime later, but not now.”

“Okay, later. I’ll… I won’t say it again,” Nasi said in a low voice, heart dropping. 

“Thank you. Now eat, please.” Holland let go of her hand and turned back to Kell, dropping his voice so that only their table could hear. “Are you alright?”

“When were you going to tell me?” Kell stared at him, still awestruck.

“I… I was not going to, for a while,” Holland admits, suddenly looking guilty. “I was drunk, but I meant it. I… I was not sure how to, how to approach the idea--.”

“You could have started by telling me,” Kell whispered urgently. He leaned forward across the table, their hands almost touching but not quite. “Just telling me what that meant, Holland. That would have been enough. I don’t mind finding out from Nasi, because I find out a lot of things from her but---  _ but _ .”

“But not this,” Holland exhaled. He stares at the gap between their fingers. Nasi does too. There wasn’t a space there when they ate at home. “I’m sorry, I--.”

“I forgive you,” Kell said quickly. “I forgive you. I forgive you. I…  _ Christ _ , Holland.”

Holland only stares at him, stone-faced as ever. “Yes?”

“I... I can’t, I, Nasi?” Kell looked at her, blue eyes serious. “I need you to do something for me. Call it penance.”

“What?”

“I can’t say what I want to right now. Not in English, anyhow, but can you?” Kell took a breath, cleared his throat. “Can you tell your father what you say before you leave for school in the morning? Exactly the way you say it. Could you do that for me  _ please _ ?”

Nasi pressed her lips together and nodded. She reached out blindly, tugging at Holland’s sleeve until he looked down at her. His green eyes had gone soft again, clearly already knowing what Kell meant without her having to say it. But she would, because he had asked. And she now owed him as much.

“ _ Ya tebya lyublyu _ ,” Nasi whispered. She glances back to Kell. “That, right?”

Kell nods, eyes closed. “Yes, Nasi, just that. Thank you.”

“I--,” Holland cut himself off. He smiled for a moment at Nasi, then turned back to Kell. “And I you. Yes?”

“Yes.” Kell reached for the fresh drink Holland had brought him and lifted it. “I think we both need these now more than we thought we would.”

Holland laughed, stilted and watery. “Perhaps a few more after as well.”

“I’d say so,” Kell said, then took a long drink. “We are celebrating  _ two _ things now. Christmas and… Happiness.”

“I suppose so.” Holland lifted his drink. “ _ Za zdaróvye _ .” “ _ Mazel tov _ ,” Kell did the same. He winked at Nasi. “What? I do listen  _ sometimes _ .”


	31. One Bed (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, back after almost a month to finally post the thing I should have posted 18 days ago. Dedicated to several people who I have been promising Holland/Talya spice to for months and I’m going to make it up to you right now. This is the modern AU, where Holland takes Talya home with him one spring break so she can see where he grew up, meet the church-ladies, etc.
> 
> Modern/West Virginia AU Holland and Talya having a roll in the hay.  
> CW: safe, sane, consensual + explicit sex. 
> 
> Enjoy!

In the way-back recesses of his brain, Holland knew that motels on the side of the highway would only have one bed. It was just him and Talya, driving back to Massachusetts in his beat-up old car. So of course they had gotten a room with only one bed.

It seemed silly, but he had hoped maybe they wouldn’t. That maybe there would have been two beds and he could better put up a front of respectability, manners, whatever, before pulling her into his arms. That maybe he could be wrapped in her arms, her legs, all her natural warmth without feeling his real age.

Not that Talya cared much. She had proven time and time again that she was all but unflappable and, when it came to Holland, knew exactly what she was doing. 

She had known what she had been doing, sitting in the passenger’s seat all day as Holland drove. She had sat slouched down in the seat, her legs folded and pressed to the dashboard, her skirt riding up high on her thigh. Softly biting into the flesh of her thumb or curling a tray piece of hair around her finger. 

Holland was a good driver, kept his hands at two and ten and his eyes on the road. He couldn’t help his eyes slipping over, running up the line of her leg, the curve of her hip. He’d catch himself, turning immediately back to the highway in front of him and try his hardest to focus on whatever was on the radio, but they would inevitably wander back.

And Talya, unbothered, flipping through social media, school email, a book she had meant to finish for class and never did.

Talya remained unbothered now as she dropped her duffle on the bed and smiled at him. “Good enough. Dinner?”

“Oh, um, sure,” Holland stumbles over his words, nodding. He was distracted by her hair, her brightly glittering eyes. He would blame it on exhaustion. Just too many hours driving and his mind starting to wander. Not how hot he was around the collar watching her walk around the motel room in nowhere Pennsylvania.

“I saw a place when we were driving in,” Talya says brightly. She pulled out her scrunchie, shaking her hair out over her shoulders. Holland’s breath froze in his chest as she walked over to him and held out her hand. “The keys, Holl.”

“W-Why?”

“I’m driving. You’ve had enough for today.”

“Oh, sure… Sorry, not all here.” Holland clears his throat. He dug a hand into his front pocket and drops the keys into Talya’s palm with a weak smile. “Lead on, Tal.”

Talya pushes up onto her toes to run a hand against his cheek. “Happy to.”

Holland leans his temple against the window glass as Talya drives them back the way they came. A small headache was tightening behind his eyes and he had to admit he wouldn’t stay awake for much longer. It was exhaustion  _ and _ desire that was messing him up. All of Talya  _ and _ six hours of driving. He’s tired, but the itching in his blood kept him just awake enough.

He sighs, closing his eyes. Maybe if he rested a few minutes, he could rally.

He feels the car turn a few more times, then the brakes kick in before the engine turns off completely. Inhaling sharply, Holland sits up and blinks. He turns as a hand comes to rest on his arm, coming face to face with Talya. Still smiling, still beautiful.

“Yeah?” He mumbles.

“You’re totally done, aren’t you?” It’s a statement, neatly packaged as a question. A kind suggestion that Holland found himself nodding to before he registers what her words were. Talya’s head tilts from one side to the other, her thumb rubbing light circles on his forearm. “I figured… Okay, how ‘bout this. We go in, order stuff to go, go back to the room and you can just pass out whenever that happens.”

“Yeah, that. That sounds good,” Holland says, still nodding. He rests a hand over Talya’s and leans across the console to kiss her. He moans softly, feeling like he had found home, found a center. He frees his hands up, sliding them up her neck to cup her jaw and tangle loosely in her hair. He pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against hers, the peppermint taste of her chapstick on his lips. “Sorry. I just… I needed that.”

Talya laughs softly. “D’you need more than that, Holl?”

“Maybe, if I can stay awake enough.” He takes a breath and pulls away before Talya pushes him back. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay, okay. Okay. Food first.”

“Food first.” 

Talya led the way from the car to the restaurant she had picked. Holland had to shake his head and remember where he was -- the wooden panelling and green upholstery reminded him of places his family had gone to breakfast some Sunday mornings after church. One of those roadside family restaurants that all looked the same, never served alcohol, but had all the coffee you could ever need at any hour of the day.

The woman at the register was more than happy to set them up with dinner in styrofoam containers. Holland let Talya order for the both of them as he leaned up against the wall and tried to wake himself up. Talya and the woman chatted until the food came out. He swore he heard her mention where that had been driving from, something about him being worn out. Holland at least managed a very tired “thank you” as Talya took his hand to lead them back out again. 

By the time they got back to the motel, Holland was tired, itching for touch, and suddenly starving. He wasted no time diving into the bag of fries as Talya went to change in the bathroom. He dropped onto the bed, savoring the salt and fat.

“Save some for me, you animal,” Talya teased, throwing her shirt at his head as she reappeared.

“I paid for them.”

“And I ordered them.”

“So what?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Talya muttered, rolling her eyes. She kneeled on the mattress and crawled forward as Holland watched, transfixed. He almost didn’t notice the bag being pulled from his hands for the kiss Talya pressed to his lips. 

“Holy fuck, Tal,” Holland coughed, wide-eyed and stunned. “A little warning next time, ‘kay?”

“Never,” Talya trilled happily, pulling their food onto the bed and shoving a few fries into her mouth. “Not in a million years. I love that stupid look on your face.”

“Of course you do…”

“I do. And I love the way you adjust your jeans afterwards. Yes, I see you, Holl. I’m not blind.”

Holland flushed bright pink, realizing his fingers had just settled on his waistband. He pulled them away as if they had been burned, clearing his throat and avoiding her eyes. “No I don’t.”

Talya just laughed to herself and turned on the tv. One of the house redecorating shows she liked so much -- well, liked judging people’s “design choices” in their own homes. Holland reached for his food with half a mind to just stand up and go take care of himself in the bathroom -- a cold shower, maybe just finishing himself off, he didn’t quite know. He just knew that the itching under his skin, the warmth growing in his blood was going to drive him up a wall sooner than later. 

He would never fall asleep like this, knowing she was right there. Knowing that she would find her way to his side, her breath on his neck and hair in his face.

Cold shower, then. Right after he ate something, stole more fries, he’d take a long, frigid shower. Holland pulled himself up against the headboard and did his best to focus on stupid house flipping show. Focus on the obnoxious tile floors, garish paint colors, the pickles on his burger. Anything but the tiny sliver of warm tan midriff where Talya’s shirt pulled up.

“I can feel you staring, Holl,” Talya said, her voice lilting and teasing. 

Holland turned his eyes up to the ceiling, embarrassment draining over him. He wasn’t even going to deny it. It wasn’t worth it.

“Oh, come on. Don’t do that.” Talya’s hand came to rest on his leg, as gentle as it had been on his arm earlier. “C’mon, Holl… Look at me. I’m not gonna bite, I promise.”

Holland exhaled and dropped his gaze back down to her’s. A sparkling, golden hazel that never failed to hold him in place. He swallowed hard. “What’s up?”

Talya smirked, something dangerous glittering her eyes, in her smile. “Playing dumb isn’t your best look. You know what’s up.” She rolled around, moving her food to the bedside table, then sliding up to Holland and dropping a leg over his.

“T-Tal, that’s--.”

“You said you wanted more, didn’t you?” Talya says softly. She moved his food out of the way and slid forward, resting her palms flat to his chest. “If you still want to… Well. I’m right here.”

Holland let out a shuddering breath. He lets a hand slide up her thigh to rest at her hip, then her waist. The feverish need in his blood simmered out, but didn’t dampen. Just spread more evenly through his skin and nerves. “You sure?”

“Would I have offered if I wasn’t?”

“No… And yes. God, yes.” 

Holland pulled her close, kissing up the column of her neck. He ran his hands up under her shirt, smiling at the way her muscles shifted and back arched. He bit and sucked at her ear, listening hard for the small noises she made. The little gasps and moans, hitches in her shallow breaths, the tensing muscles in her legs, the press of her hips against his. Her fingers tangled and pulled at his hair, nails scratched at his scalp. It all fanned the heat in his skin, the bubbling warmth in his stomach. He pushed his hips up into her’s and groaned.

“Here, Holl.” Talya’s fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt and he paused long enough for her to strip it off, tossing it somewhere in the room. She yanked hers off next, then rolled onto her back, reaching for the waistband of her sleep shorts.

Holland followed her, pinning her wrists to the mattress next to her head. “Not yet,” he panted. “Not yet. I want to.”

Talya nodded. “Yeah, but could you-?”

“Yeah, soon.” Holland settled on top of her, burying his face back in her neck. Her legs wrap tight around his middle, heels digging into the small of his back. He rolled his hips. “Promise, Tal. Promise.”

“You still have stuff right?”

“Yeah. In my bag.”

“Cool. Just checking.” Talya scraped her nails over his shoulder blades. “I just- ah! Fuck, Holl. How are you always spot on?”

Holland laughed and pressed a kiss to her hair, pushing himself up to grin at her. “Because you showed me what to do so I’ll always be spot on.”

She blinks, already flushed. “Oh. I did, huh?”

“You sure did.” He kisses her deeply, tucking fingers into the waistband of her shorts and underwear. Noses bump, teeth scrape, her fingers grip and tug at his hair again. Holland breaks the kiss, panting. “Here. I’ll jog your memory.”

He sits back up, tugging her shorts down and off. It left her bare and spread out on the bed in front of him. He stood long enough to pull off his own jeans, then settled back on the mattress between her legs. He arched an eyebrow in a tacit question, fingers trailing idly over her hip. Talya bit her lip and nodded quickly, eyes darkening with the lust invading her expression.

She let out a high-pitched gasp as his tongue pressed to her. Lightly at first, then slowly adding pressure in time with Talya’s hips bucking against him. Holland squeezed at her hips and backside, the soft give grounding him. He ground his hips against the comforter, seeking just enough friction to take the edge off. Just enough so he wouldn’t reach a hand down to take care of himself quicker than he wanted. Talya was wriggling against the bed, the noises he loved so much growing louder until they broke in a shrill cry. 

Her chest heaved as she came back down, both hands twisted in her curls. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes fanning over pink flushed cheeks. “Oh fuck, oh… fuck. Holl, please?”

“More?” Holland asked, leaning back over her. He smiled at the reversal. He was asking her now, warm desire rushing through his bloodstream. 

“Uh huh. Please?”

Holland pressed a kiss to her forehead and pulled away to dig through his bag. He dropped a condom and a small bottle of lube on the bed next to her shoulder. “Anything you like, darling.”

Talya’s eyes flew open. “Oh no. That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” Holland winked. He stripped off his boxers and reached for the condom, but Talya grabbed his wrist before he could.

“The voice is  _ not fair _ ,” Talya said. “Your voice and the accent and the  _ darlin _ ’? That’s not fair, Holl.”

“I don’t know,” Holland replied slowly, lowering his voice and settling on top of her again. “What you’re talking about.” He pressed against her, running his palms up and down her sides. Warming her up, nipping at her ear, sucking at the hollow of her throat. For a few long minutes before pulling all the way back and reaching for the condom. As Talya pouted, Holland simply tilted his head and winked. “Darlin’.”

“ _ God _ ,” Talya groaned, all but outright glaring at him. “Just fuck me already. Put  _ that _ to fucking use.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Holland shrugged. He chewed his lip as he prepped Talya, then himself. He moves back closer, lifting her legs to sit easily around his waist. He pressed himself to her, looking back to Talya’s face. “But I am gonna need a yes, if you don’t mind.”

Talya huffed a breath and smirked. “Yes, fuck yes.”

Holland held his breath as he eased himself in, biting his tongue as it threatened to overwhelm him completely. He bent forward over her, pressing forehead to forehead as he caught his breath. Words wouldn’t form properly, all communication reduced to nods and breathy sounds and whines. Talya pushes her hips up against him, murmuring something that sounds close to  _ please _ . Holland can only eek out a soft  _ uh huh _ before he starts moving. 

Slow movements that wound every ounce of pleasure from his bones and hers. All consuming, rolling thrusts that had Talya gripping and grabbing at anything she could get her hands on, that had Holland panting, shaking, dizzy. He only speeds up as he tips over the edge, his vision blurring as he moans against Talya’s neck.

“D-Did, did you?”

“Not yet, h-here.” 

Talya takes his hand and slides it between them, pressing his fingers to her. Holland pants heavy into her hair, dancing on the edge of delirium, rubbing in slow circles. Just the way she had directed him to the first time, just the way he had done for years since. He feels her climax as it rolls through her -- the sudden tightness around him, the jerking of her hips sending him keening all over again. Too much, not enough, never ever enough.

Her legs go limp and loose around him, dropping against the bed as Holland collapsed on top of her. “S-Sorry. Arms gone.”

“S’okay,” she slurs, running soft fingers through his dark hair, sweaty now. “I’s okay, Holl… That was, was really.  _ Really _ good.”

“Yeah?” Holland murmured. He wrapped his arms around her, rolling onto his side and holding her as close as he can. “It was. It’s always good, with you.”

“Tha’s why I keep you around, Holl,” Talya laughed. “No one makes my toes curl like you.”


End file.
